


Violent Delights

by theeventualwinner



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Abuse, Angband, Asphyxiation, Blood, Bondage, Drug Use, Dubious Consent, Figging, Gore, Humiliation, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Infertility, Injury, M/M, Master/Pet, Piercings, Punishment, Rape/Non-con Elements, Sounding, Utumno, Whipping, Wire Play
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-05-18
Updated: 2016-05-18
Packaged: 2018-02-20 21:06:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 20
Words: 42,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2443175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theeventualwinner/pseuds/theeventualwinner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of NSFW ficlets, mostly interwoven about Sauron's timeline through the First and Second Ages, and the Beginning of Arda. Cross-posted and collated from Tumblr.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Contents Page!

So this little collection of stories is slowly getting larger and more unwieldy, and the same tags do not always apply to each fic, so I thought to create a plain and simple contents page for the readers' information! The overall fic tags shall be updated, and the individual warnings placed atop each chapter posting shall remain in place for your convenience also. This page will be updated as new fics are added to the collection. Below are listed:

(Chapter Number).  _Chapter Title_. Pairing. Major fic themes: major topic warnings.

I assume that there is no need to iterate because you are all worldly people and I'd imagine know what you've shown up for, but once more for the road: Angbang is Melkor / Sauron, and Silverfisting is Celebrimbor / Sauron.

So here are the contents!

2. _Bold_. Angbang. Consensual: whip-play.

3. _Lies, My Dear_. Silverfisting. Nonconsensual: reluctance.

4. _Indulgence._ Angbang. Consensual.

5. _Bruises._ Mairon and Gothmog. General fic: abuse, injury, heavily implied previous non-consent/rape.  
  
6\. _Patience_. Angbang. Consensual; teasing, mentions of piercing.  
  
7\. _Adornments._   Angbang. Consensual; piercing, body modification.  
  
8\. _The Sparring Ring._  Angbang. General fic; mild violence, utterly devoid of the word ‘puissance’!    
  
9\. _Obedience._   Angbang. Nonconsensual; pet-play, asphyxiation / breath-play, punishment, humiliation.  
  
10\. _Lying To Yourself, Again._ Mairon and Gothmog. General fic: heavily implied rape, abuse, injury, gore.  
  
11\. _Little One._  Angbang. Consensual.  
  
12\. _Sore in Pride and Body._ Angbang. Dubious consent: piercing play, teasing, implied rape, humiliation.  
  
13\. _I Am Become Death._  Angbang. General fic: discussions of infertility / sterility.  
_  
_ 14. _The Whip and the Wire._ Angbang. Nonconsensual: punishment, whipping, barbed wire play, humiliation.

15. _Primordial._ Angbang. Dubious consent: first time trope, nonconsensual elements.

16. _Crimes of the Body._ Angbang. General fic: heavily implied rape, abuse, gore.

17 _. A Slice of Ginger._  Angbang. Dubious consent: punishment, figging, humiliation.

18. _A Touch of Metal._ Angbang. Consensual: sounding.

19. _Nine Score Centuries._ Angbang. Consensual.

20. _Rockmilk_. Angbang. Consensual: consensual drug use / intoxication. 

I've done my best to cover most of the major themes within each fic, but if you personally have any needs or wants for me to specifically tag anything personally triggering for you, then please do let me know, and it shall be done!  
You can contact me via comments here on AO3, or via my tumblr - [markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask](http://markedasinfernal.tumblr.com/ask) is the place! Please don't feel like you're ever bothering me or anything - if you'd liked something tagged then please say, and it shall be done! 

Now, enough of the formalities - on with you, click 'next chapter' or skip forward to the chapter of your interest, and enjoy my smut! :D 


	2. Bold

_A bold young Maia and his master. Utumno-era Melkor / Mairon. Whip-play. Mairon's POV: This Game We Play style._

* * *

 

“My lord, I -”

The leather thong of a riding crop flicks against his lips, and his speech cuts off with a start as he jerks backwards in surprise. The impact sizzles across his skin; warm, concussive force prickles across his lips, yet despite himself he kneels still; and from the cold throne before him, his master sneers: 

“ _Did I say that you could speak?”_

Such delicate peril rolls in his master’s voice, and for a moment he almost forgets himself; something tight leaps up into his throat and he opens his mouth to reply. But swiftly then the whip snaps back across his lips, and though he recoils from its sting he does not move, he cannot move, he remains firmly on his knees. 

But still, he has no intent of cowering. 

In mild deference he inclines his head and the leather thong slips from him. And from above him, his raven hair crowned only by the angles of the chiselled throne upon which he sits, he can almost hear his master purr. 

“ _Bold you have grown of late, little one_ ,” his master smiles, all pointed teeth and coy, lazy surety.

Motionless he remains as the whip strokes over his cheekbone, haughtiness even he strives for, but all too conscious he is of the quickening of his breath, of desire’s little flutters that swirl and clench through his stomach. The cold, dark air of the throne room bathes his skin in all its shivering menace, and only too glad is he for its emptiness. The gossip would scrape Utumno’s dour halls for weeks should he be discovered in such a position: utterly stripped and on his knees before his master.

“ _Bold,”_ his master muses, the whip twirling lasciviously through his fingers. “ _Eager. But reckless. Boundless.”_

The challenge burns gold in his master’s eyes, and with a feline grace his master suddenly arises from the throne. With every ounce of his willpower he forces himself to remain still, to ignore the increasing thud of his heartbeat and the traitorous flash of excitement that quivers up through him, and with fierce resolution then he stares at the empty throne.

It is what his master wants, surely. His submission. 

The metal caps of his master’s boots click against the obsidian tiling, stalking out a wide, unyielding circle about him. His fingernails dig bloodied crescents into the palms of his hands as he waits, as his master prowls around him, as the dread anticipation of pain flays him.

Slowly, tenderly, the whip trails over his shoulder, the thong grazes over his skin, but for its gentleness still he jumps; a tiny mewl of surprise leaps from his throat before he can quite stifle it. But viciously he reins himself in; though he wobbles he yet pulls himself aright, and with burning control he remains passive. 

“ _Very good,”_ his master murmurs, and at his praise shame floods through him. For those words worm through him, and they drag up darker things, things he never wanted to admit to, things he could never admit to. Dreams of desire, dreams of lust; and though he shakes with the degradation of them, their cloying, awful, beautiful ardours race through him. And how he longs to disobey, to make his master take him, break him, across the great seat of the throne pin him down and _fuck_ him - 

A welt blossoms in a sear of pain across his inner thigh; his master slashes the whip cruelly hard across such vulnerable skin, and at the impact he gasps, jerked untimely from such ardent, improper reveries. Yet even as the pain shudders through him, his knees splay wider, and his master stripes another smarting crack across the opposite leg, the leather licking its strange, delicious sting between his legs. And where he should have flinched, he should have recoiled, his back arcs; some perverse lust he did not even understand ignites within him and he rolls his hips upwards, he curls _into_ the blow, and desperately, longingly he looks up at the throne.

“ _Oh, little one,”_ his master sighs, a playful tilt to his voice, and the words drip from his tongue like honey. “ _Enjoying yourself?”_

Powerless he is to stop the blush from mottling up his neck; too late he comes to stop the pining, animal moan that bleeds from his throat.

“ _Come come, little one,”_ his master grins, a gleeful, feral light glittering in his eyes. “ _Coherency.”_

His master’s smile seems to curdle in the air, for a moment he hesitates in his answer, and an instant later that moan explodes into a yelp of pain as the whip cracks across his right nipple, its impact leaving a bright kiss speckled across his skin. And though every rational part of him reviles it, the failing shreds of his pride attempt to rally to their duties, lust screams out the brighter; dark and pounding and unthinkable and _exquisite_ ; and with a faltering, frantic little motion at last he nods.

A smirk curls over his master’s lips, and with a smooth glide he comes to a halt a few paces before him, the whip tapping ponderingly against the leather calves of his boots.

_“Come here_ ,” his master purrs; and desire clenches so hard within him that it aches. Shakily he arises, the whip-marks twinge and burn across his skin as he steps over to his master but he doesn’t care, they don’t matter anymore as his master takes him by the hand, as they sink back into the throne and tenderly his master tilts his chin; and deeply, richly, with such unfathomable passion he kisses him.

His hands curl into the folds of his master’s tunic, his master’s leg parts his thighs as their position shifts, and he rocks his hips into that pressure, sending waves of such blistering pleasure spiralling up through him. With the tight clumsiness of youth he clings to his master, savouring every new press of their lips, every lingering touch of their bodies, and the whip skitters to the floor as the slow, crushing delight of their ardour consumes them.

And after a time he feels his master smile against him, the curvature of his lips highlighted in such clarity against his own. Softly then he pulls back from his master’s embrace, he looks up into his eyes, and a simmering, auric humour shines back at him. 

“What is it?” he whispers, confusion swimming through him at such an unexpected shift of his master’s mood. 

A tiny roll of laughter breathes over his master’s lips, he reaches up to stroke the messy strands of blond hair back from his face. And in a throaty, mischievous whisper that sends his heart tumbling, his master at last says:

“ _Boldness becomes you, little one.”_


	3. Lies, My Dear

_Annatar and Celebrimbor. Second Age. Non-con / rape._

* * *

“Come on,” Annatar purred, smugly sitting astride Celebrimbor’s hips. His hands began to pluck at the clasps of the elf’s shirt, revealing a well-muscled chest below the dark, embroidered fabric.

“Don’t…” Celebrimbor pushed Annatar’s hands away; half-heartedly he tried to wriggle out from underneath the Maia’s legs. 

Suddenly Annatar’s weight dropped a little heavier about his hips, the Maia’s knees clenched a little tighter into his sides, and Annatar’s voice thickened. “It’ll be fun…” 

“No,” Celebrimbor said. He flinched as Annatar brought his hands back up, as the Maia leaned forward to press hard against his chest. A fingernail tapped coyly upon his sternum, an unkind light glittered in Annatar’s eyes, and disgust coiled in Celebrimbor’s stomach. 

“Tyelpë,” Annatar murmured, his voice sultry but for the ugly curl of dominance in it. He scratched a line down the elf’s chest, he watched as the skin below him flushed pink under his nails. Faintly the elf bucked, he could feel the undulations of muscle in Celebrimbor’s strong torso, but easily he rode them, and lasciviously then he smiled. “Oh, I do so love it when you struggle. I do so love it when we play…”

His hands wandered back to the final fastenings upon Celebrimbor’s shirt, but suddenly the elf jerked beneath him, he slapped his hands away as coldly he said, “No, Annatar. I’m not playing this time. I _don’t_ want to. So stop.”

Something malicious flickered in Annatar’s eyes, and a quick heartbeat later Celebrimbor felt the Maia’s hands lock about his upper arms, pinning him down into the mattress. With a slow, unsettling malevolence Annatar leaned forward, pressing himself atop Celebrimbor, his fingers gripping with bruising force about his arms. 

“Why?” the Maia sneered, and such poison dripped in his voice that Celebrimbor felt sick. He turned his head aside; he could not meet Annatar’s eyes. “Tell me why.” 

“Why, what?” Celebrimbor sighed, and with a faint slick of dread he felt Annatar’s hands clench tighter about his arms. 

“Why don’t you want to?” 

Celebrimbor’s throat tightened. The words seemed to hook inside of him, at once intuitive and uncertain. Of late Annatar wore his smiles like a serpent did its scales. Beautiful he was, but proud, _perilous_ : his fairness but a mask that disguised the corruption in him. Behind the Maia’s eyes had grown a sneer that never seemed to fade. The very words that poured over his lips seemed greased; cool and haughty and flattering as always, but where once they had the power to charm him they now left a bitter taste upon his tongue.

He felt Annatar’s displeasure bristle, the Maia pressed a little more heavily into him; but still the words wouldn’t come, they slipped and moiled just below the veneer of coherence, and hopelessly then Celebrimbor had sighed.

“I just… I just don’t want to,” he mumbled. “Not now, all right?” 

A cruel little smirk curved over Annatar’s lips, and in his heart Celebrimbor knew that it would be futile. In melancholy resignation he closed his eyes, he felt Annatar’s head dip above him; the Maia’s soft lips trailed over his collarbone, up the side of his neck. A whine peeled from his throat as he felt Annatar’s hands loosen about his arms, as he felt the familiar tug between his hips, the slip and jerk of his lacings being undone.   

Maybe then he could have done something, he should have pushed Annatar away for good; but though that temptation swirled within him, it was somehow distant, somehow cold. It did not quite have the power to move him. 

He felt Annatar shift atop him; a constellation of kisses patterned down his bared stomach and then over his hipbones as his breeches were pulled free, as Annatar slid between his legs. A terrible passivity settled over him, a mournful sort of dispassion gripped him as Annatar dripped something cold down over him, as the Maia splayed his legs wider.

Maybe it wouldn’t be so awful, he thought sadly. Maybe it would be over quickly. Annatar would get what he wanted and then he would just go away, he would leave him alone. And a part of him wanted to shriek at himself: from where had this meekness come? He was bolder than this, he was stronger; he should stop this, now. But the impetus behind that thought slipped just beyond his reach, it drifted away as Annatar positioned himself between his legs.

It was just easier this way. It was just… _easier_. Maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much, after all. 

He moaned as Annatar slid into him, but it was not a cry of pleasure. Slowly Annatar began to find his rhythm: one hand slid about Celebrimbor’s lower back to raise his hips, the other flicked upwards to toy with his nipple, and numbly Celebrimbor let him. 

He just lay there, trying not to feel. 

After a while he heard Annatar’s breath grow heavier; the Maia’s languid, sinuous thrusts quickened in their urgency, and a swell of nausea rose in Celebrimbor’s stomach. Each roll of Annatar’s hips rocked him a few centimetres across the bedcovers, and distantly Celebrimbor felt himself bite down upon his lip to stifle the weary tears that gathered behind his eyes.   

Atop him Annatar shifted, his lips grazed over the side of his neck. Softly then he heard Annatar’s whisper, in all of its horror and perhaps its warped version of the truth. 

“I love you, Tyelpë.” 

Miserably Celebrimbor lay there as Annatar rutted against him, _into_ him. His eyes stared blankly up to the ceiling, a slight wince of pain flitted over his face as Annatar’s breath turned to groans, as he felt the hot, ugly spurt of seed inside of him. 

“No,” he whispered sadly, as Annatar pressed even harder into him, uncaring in his throes of passion. “No, you don’t.”   


	4. Indulgence

_Angband-era Angbang!_

* * *

 

His master’s kiss takes him only half by surprise. His master cups his cheek gently, but firmly he kisses him, steering him backwards across the bedchamber to lean him back over the bed. Atop the silk covers he sinks, and his master follows him to match, leaning over him and pressing him further into the covers as his tongue pushes into his mouth, as it twines dizzyingly with his own.

A moan of delight swells upon his lips as his master slides his hand up beneath his shirt. His master’s fingers dance over the lithe, strong muscles of his abdomen, and a gasp catches in his throat as his master teases his nipple. Even through their kiss he can feel his master grin, he can feel the slight tingle of nails raking down his side as his master slides his hand back down, and a familiar flush of arousal prickles into life between his legs.

Atop his shirt now his master’s fingers wander their way back up his stomach, up his chest, up his arms; but for that gentleness his kiss grows all the more savage. Hungrily his master presses into him, each swirl of his tongue becomes almost biting, almost painful; and so caught is he in that torrid sensation that by the time he notices what his master is doing it is far too late. 

In one languid, irresistible motion his master shifts further atop him, pushing his arms up above his head, and before he can gather the breath to protest he feels his wrists bound about a post upon the bed’s header and secured there with a length of velvet ribbon. Sharply he tugs against his bonds, his entire body writhes with sudden urgency against that restraint, but thought the knots are delicate about his wrists they will not give an inch.

Atop him his master smirks, he watches with such capricious glee as his struggles slowly fade into wary, expectant stillness.

“My – my lord?” he stammers, but before another questioning syllable can flit over his lips his master taps a finger against them, and so lasciviously then his master smiles that it is all he can do to swallow back the moan of arousal that comes tumbling up his throat.

Atop him his master moves back, he straddles his hips and begins to unfasten the clasps of his shirt. With each new inch of skin that is revealed his master leans forward, planting a tender kiss between his clavicles, down his sternum, and a shiver of delight races through him at each sensual little touch. Further back his master moves, shifting himself to sit between his legs as a constellation of wet, lapping kisses trails down his stomach. As his master’s tongue and fingers brush over his hipbones he gasps, he squirms as a bright pulse of ardour flashes up through him, and so salaciously poised between his legs his master smiles up at him.

Slowly his master reaches up, he slides free the fastenings upon his breeches and begins to wriggle them downwards, and happily he obliges that effort. His hips sway as his master’s fingers ghost over his thighs, in excited anticipation he squirms as he feels his garments pulled free in their entirety, leaving him so deliciously exposed before his master. 

“ _Spread your legs, little one.”_

A pink blush mottles over his cheeks at such a lewd suggestion, but before he has even the slightest chance of stopping himself, instinct compels him to move. Swiftly his legs part, his hips near arc up towards his master as that dark craving throbs through him. 

“ _They say indulgence is a sin, little one,”_ his master breathes, and in what excruciating contrast to that throaty whisper comes his squeak of delight as his master strokes lightly over his inner thighs, his nails just grazing the sensitive skin there. “ _Were I to indulge you, what then would you ask of me?”_  

It is so hard to think, it is so hard to sort the jumble of his thoughts into some form of coherency as the maddening ache of arousal seeps through him, as each gentle scrape of his master’s nails stokes him that little bit higher. 

“I – “ He has scarcely begun when his master leans forward, one hand slipping fully between his legs and stroking him so exquisitely that he almost purrs in delight. His fingers dig into his palms as he tries to steel himself, he tries to hold on to whatever tiny shreds of composure he might yet have as hot, giddying waves of arousal score upwards from the base of his stomach. Yet that composure is shattered utterly as his master stoops, as with a luxuriant grin his master runs his tongue up the underside of his length, darting over the swollen, engorged veins that pattern his arousal, and the moan that rips out of his throat then could have made the mountains themselves blush crimson.

Desperately he bucks; he tries to press himself upwards. His arms strain against the bonds that hold him but teasingly then his master moves away, his lips hovering a tantalizing inch or so above his throbbing tip. 

“ _Well, little one,”_ his master coos, and such temptation drips from his teeth that it nearly stops the breath in his lungs. “ _What do you want me to do?”_

Somehow he finds it within himself to open his mouth, he tries to draw in a breath to speak but even as he does his master coaxes him harder, his right hand slipping between his legs once more and whatever words he had planned slip away into one aching cry of passion. 

He thrashes in his bonds, his legs slide against the bedcovers and somehow only splay him wider, and desperately he presses himself into his master’s touch. 

“P-please, my lord,” he gasps, his master’s fingers brushing over him so infuriatingly, so _lightly_. “P-please I… I w-want you to… _ohhh_!” 

His speech cuts off into a filthy moan of pleasure as his master crooks his head, as softly he bites down upon the skin of his innermost thigh. At that delicious pressure he bucks his hips, his back arcs in utter delight as his master nips a line of teasing, biting kisses down his left thigh, before switching to his right and nibbling his seductive way back up. His breath turns to needy, gasping pants as his master’s lips brush over his pelvis, as his tongue flicks its gleeful, lascivious way up his achingly hard length.

“ _Enjoying yourself, little one?”_ his master croons, and the hot flush of his breath against his length sends tight spirals of arousal coursing up through him.

“Y-yes…” he splutters, and every muscle in his body clenches as his master slides himself upwards once more, planting a tiny kiss at the very tip of his length. 

“Please, my lord,” he begs, he writhes his hips in such beseeching, hurting need. “P-please…” 

So seductively his master blinks up at him, with such raw carnality he opens his mouth, and saliva glistens like rubies upon his lips. Mischievously his master’s tongue flicks over his tip, before an instant later his master presses himself down, taking the first few inches of him with languid ease.

“Oh…” he moans, his back arcing clean off the sheets as he tries to grind himself upwards, and as his master takes him down further he can do nothing but clench his fists and whine. “Oh… oh _f-fuck_ …”

Slowly his master continues, he hollows his cheeks as his hips roll into him, as he pants, as his breaths turn to dark, ragged moans of pleasure. He nearly squeals as suddenly his master pinches the inside of his thigh, as his master tips his head to run his tongue wetly up his length, and with that final pressure it becomes all too much. Against his bonds he tenses, his head tosses back as his master draws his tongue one final time about his tip, and with a groan of ecstasy he comes. Thick, hot ropes of his seed spurt up onto his bared stomach, his master turns his head aside to nip at his length and his thighs once more, and those shifting, prickling touches seem only to push him higher. He moans out his pleasure as such seething ardour grips him, his hips undulating in salacious little rolls as those sensations swamp him. 

At last it ends, his master’s bites turn to soft, sweet kisses upon him, and through flushed, sweaty cheeks he pants as the last shivers of orgasm slip slowly from him. Above him he feels his master move, he feels his fingers trail up his stomach, and his abdominals quiver in the wake of their passage. 

Through the messy spill of his seed across his stomach his master’s fingers wander, and with one indolent motion his master slides himself forward to lie closely beside him, and an instant later his master’s fingers press upon his lips. 

For a moment he resists, even through the lingering hum of pleasure within him this is _debased_ but with his hands still tied above his head he has little escape. Lovingly his master grins over at him, at once protectively and possessively and at such a look he crumbles. With little other recourse he parts his lips, he licks himself off his master’s fingers, and though disgust squirms in his stomach, the smile that his master bestows upon him sets his heart soaring. 

“Th-thank you, my lord,” he whispers, the submissive words slipping over his lips before he ever intends them to, and an instant later he flushes crimson.

Beside him his master sighs, his fingers come anew to his lips and gently still he parts them, he tastes himself once more upon his master’s greyed fingertips as he licks them clean, and he cannot quite bring himself to hate it.

“ _It is nothing, little one,”_ his master purrs, with such genuine warmth in his tone that it sets a little ball of flame to glow merrily within him. “ _I do so like to see you pleased.”_

Slowly then his master reaches up, with a word of power freeing the bonds about his wrists and then slipping beneath the covers. For a moment he lies still, kneading his wrists, until he hears his master murmur: “ _Come here.”_

Such is the tenderness in his master’s voice that a part of him melts into it, and fleetly he slips beneath the covers before curling himself into his master’s chest. That warm glow of happiness inside of him nearly trills with delight as his master moves to embrace him fully, cradling him into his chest as with his left hand he strokes his cheekbone, as he brushes the sweaty strands of his hair back from his face. 

“Thank you,” he murmurs again, his face nuzzling into his master’s chest as a wave of blissful weariness washes through him. 

“ _Hush, little one_ ,” his master whispers in return. “ _The pleasure was mine also, I assure you_.”

Even through the tiredness that drags at him a slight prickle of confusion runs, and curiously he tilts his head up, his brow furrowed in slight bemusement. But even as he moves he feels his master bend in towards him, he feels a kiss plant itself tenderly upon his lips and into that embrace he falls. Confusion smoothes from him as his master so resolutely holds him, as into their kiss his master finally breathes: _“For if sins are sweet, little one, then surely you are the most delicious of them all.”_

 


	5. Bruises

_A requested fic: something with Gothmog and Mairon being friends. Friends thusly I have presented; and a very young, naive Mairon only quite newly come to Melkor’s service and attentions in Utumno’s day. Mairon’s POV, as usual. Tw: implied non-con._

* * *

 

Upon a high escarpment of the Ered Engrin he sits, his legs dangling carelessly over the cavernous drop beneath him. The wind shivers mournfully about him, stirring the ends of his hair to float like a tangled, maudlin crown about his head as he stares emptily over the crooked mountain range before him.

 **“Mairon?”** A deep, gravelly voice sounds from behind him, and inwardly he sighs. His shoulders shift a little in discomfort as he hears his friend approach, yet he gives no reply, hoping against hope that somehow by his silence the Balrog might be dissuaded from pursuing his company at this particular moment. 

 **“Hey, Mairon!”** The voice calls, a little closer this time, and the nearing tread of cloven feet sounds upon the stone ledge behind him. **“Yes, you, blondie, don’t pretend that you can’t hear me!”**  

A pained smile touches the edge of his lips, but still he does not turn around as he murmurs, “Hello, Gothmog.”

“ **Ohh, come now** ,” the Balrog chides him, flopping down upon the ledge to his right with an ease that is almost distressing. Seemingly unconcerned about the vertiginous chasm beneath the ledge Gothmog swings his legs over the side, flexing his ankles contentedly in the chilly air as he settles himself beside him.

Even clad in semi-humanoid _fána_ Gothmog is no waif, and the meaty finger that prods into his thigh is more than enough to make him squirm. “ **What was that morose greeting, hmm?”**  

His mouth sets into a tight, miserable line, through eyes limned in a reddish tinge he glances sideways at his friend, but he cannot quite find it within himself to reply. After a moment of awkward silence Gothmog sighs, and sardonically then he drawls: “ **You only ever come up here when you’re sulking, do you know that?”**

The wind shifts his unbound hair like a blond veil over his face, masking the flex of muscles in his cheek as he clenches his jaw. Hard he bites down, he stills the perilous tremor of emotion that flits through him, and tightly his hands grip into the crumbly rock ledge upon which he sits. 

“ **Out with it, Mairon,”** Gothmog rumbles, a benevolent smile pricking at his lips. “ **What is the matter?”**

“Nothing,” he mutters. “I’m fine.” 

He feels more than sees Gothmog pout beside him, and an instant later a fine spray of gravel flicks over his thigh. At such childish behaviour his lip curls in kind, but still Gothmog persists, sending a fresh hail of stones pattering harmlessly against his leg. But at the Valarauka’s third and more vigorous attempt to pique him a few larger chunks of stone scatter against his right arm, and that impact sends the breath skidding in over his teeth. 

Instantly Gothmog notices his reaction, slight though it is, and more pointedly then the Balrog repeats: “ **What’s wrong?”**  

“Nothing,” he growls, his left hand coming across himself to grasp about his right upper arm, and though he grits his teeth he kneads the flesh beneath the loose sleeve of his shirt. 

“ **If you slipped down the stairs there’s nothing to be ashamed of** ,” Gothmog ventures, and the Balrog’s fiery eyes ignite in merriment as the thought flashes through him. **“I don’t know what our master was thinking. All of that marble, this far North? It’s bloody well hazardous! The slightest hint of a frost and we might as well all be wobbling through the Helcaraxë. You’d not be the first to run afoul of the stairs, believe you me.**

 **Did you see Langon that time Tevildo left a trail of cream down them, and he fell all the way down? I’ve never heard anyone swear so inventively!”**

A wan smile flickers over his lips at the memory, but it fades from him as silently he glances down at his lap once more. 

**“No?”** Gothmog asks, the first furrows of confusion buckling his horned brow. “ **Come now, Mairon, this is not like you. What is wrong, eh?”**

Casually Gothmog leans over, reassuringly even, but from his friend’s presence he shrinks away. His fingers tighten over his arm; his knuckles show white through his skin as he pulls himself away, and at that Gothmog frowns. 

“ **What’s wrong with your arm?”**

“It’s fine.” 

 **“Mairon…”** The first note of true warning sounds in Gothmog’s voice, and under it he crumbles. His eyes close as a soft expression of sorrow clouds over his face, and a beat of silence passes between them. And in that silence a hideous moment of potential, of dawning _understanding_ clots between them. 

Tentatively Gothmog swallows, disbelief and horror tingeing his voice as tenderly he murmurs, “ **Did he hurt you?”**

“No…” 

 **“Let me see.”** With surprising gentleness Gothmog rolls up his sleeve, shifting the loose fabric to ruck up about his shoulder, and numbly he relinquishes his left hand’s grip to allow the Balrog his investigation. And at what is unveiled upon his arm Gothmog inhales one deep gasp of anger. 

Bruises curl over his bicep, four distinctive marks stand like bloodied tar over his pale skin, and curving towards his inner arm a fifth mark is just discernable. Sickly, yellowed flesh mottles the edge of each mark, darkening to a livid centre of burst blood vessels and distressed, purplish skin in a pattern that is so horrifically familiar. It is so terribly _intimate_. 

“ **Oh, Mairon…”** Gothmog breathes, dismay clotting even in his dark baritone. 

But before the Valarauka can say anything else roughly he snatches himself away, he shoves his sleeve back down and turns away from his friend with a scowl. 

“Don’t,” he snaps. “Just don’t, Gothmog. It’s not worth it, all right?” 

 **“Did he do this to you?”** the Balrog rumbles, surprise and anger and affront mingling in his tone and becoming puissant. **“Mairon, you cannot let him do this! This is not right.”**

Bitterly Gothmog’s words wash over him, and caught in their flow he sits as if graven in stone. 

“I don’t think I have a choice.” The wind tears the words from his lips. They tumble weakly into the chasm beneath him. 

 **“Yes!”** the Valarauka exclaims, vehemence igniting in his eyes, and little prickles of flame burst in fiery rivulets along his bared arms. “ **Yes, you do. You always have a choice, Mairon, and this –“**

“You don’t know him, Gothmog,” he protests, but even to him the words sound feeble. “You don’t know what he’s _like_ …”

 **“I do,”** the Balrog growls. **“Less intimately perhaps, but still I know. I know the nature of the one whom I choose to serve. Tempers our master has, moods and capriciousness and malevolence to those who cross him, but this… Mairon, you _cannot_ let him hurt you this way. It is not seemly. It is not _lordly_. This is not behaviour that befits a king, nor his lieutenant.”**

“Kings can do what they will with their subjects,” he replies hollowly. “That’s what he said when… when he…” 

Fiery cracks erupt like split veins across Gothmog’s arms, a guttural growl scrapes out of the Balrog’s throat as angrily he stands. A hot flurry of cinders heralds his rise, upon his heel he turns and a smoking crescent is left scored into the rock as he steps away. 

“Wait!” he calls suddenly, a tight clutch of panic seizing him as Gothmog begins to walk away. “Wait, where are you going?” 

 **“This is not right, Mairon,”** Gothmog glowers, and as he speaks he comes to a simmering, reticent halt. **“This is _not right_. I will not stand idly by and watch you be abused.”**

Dread pulses coldly within him, it spurs him to stand, and he darts across the ledge to plant himself firmly before his friend, blocking his path as warily, angrily, bitterly he says: “What do you think you can do?”

 **“I will make him stop.”** There is no trace of a question in the Balrog’s voice.

“I don’t think you can…”

 **“Then at the very least I will try.“**

With that bold declaration Gothmog steps forward, he moves to brush him aside and trace his way back down the serpentine paths to the far distant roofs of Utumno’s squat turrets. But against the Balrog he stands his ground, even though a part of him hates himself for it, a part of him longs to let his friend help him, he stands firm. The hateful words seethe and moil upon his tongue, for a moment he founders, but eventually he spits them from him. 

“Don’t. Just don’t. Please? Don’t get involved. I’m fine… really. I – I don’t want him to… to…”

Deeply Gothmog sighs, his eyes shut for a second as he winces, and softly he begins, **“Mairon…”**

“ _Please?”_ The urgency in his voice is pitiful, even to him. “Please, just leave it alone. It’s not… it’s not that bad, I promise. I just…” 

The words stick in his throat, and in their silence beseechingly he looks up at his friend. Before him Gothmog sighs once more. **“I do not want to see you hurt.”**

“They’re just bruises, Gothmog,” he says wearily, and the weakness of his words make him sick to his stomach. “They’ll fade…” 

 **“And what about when they don’t?”** the Balrog retorts. **“What happens when the day comes and it’s not just bruises anymore? When it’s something else, something worse? What will you do then?”**

The words hover upon his lips, glistening there in all their indecision. “I - “ 

Ruefully Gothmog sighs, and as he shakes his head a few sad little cinders drift from him, their tiny, incandescent flames lifting from his hair to be snuffed out by the uncaring wind that slices about them. 

 **“One day he will hurt you, Mairon,’’** Gothmog says slowly, and on their long, silent trudge back down to the fortress those words dig their relentless thorns into him. **“One day he will wound you so deeply that you will not be able to run from it. You will not be able to feign that everything is still all right. And I only hope that then you will have the strength to say what you truly feel, else that upon that day I fear that you will be lost.”**


	6. Patience

Somewhere nonspecific along the Angbandian timeline: a rather shameless piece of smut written for a friend's birthday. Enjoy. Cross-posted from Tumblr.

 

* * *

 

“ _Turn around, little one_.”

His master’s voice reverberates about the empty expanse of Angband’s great hall, and at its dark, salacious throb his breath catches a little in his throat. So cunningly had his master drawn him forth, he had bidden him stand before the throne; so seductively his master had worked the clothes from him and upon his nakedness now the shadowed ceiling stares hungrily down. Hesitancy grips him for a second at his master’s command, yet still he moves, though he does not do it quickly. He turns upon his heel, he stares outwards from the dais and over the cold marble to the bolted iron doors some hundred metres distant, and a hot thrill of anticipation clenches in his stomach.

He hears his master move behind him, he hears the swish of fabric being unfurled and the soft creak of leather boots, and with every ounce of his willpower he fights down the clawing urge to turn back around, to see what his master was doing. 

“ _Do you trust me, little one?”_ His master’s voice drips like honey from his lips, it flows about the hall with such cloying, deceptive charm. 

Something tight knots in him at his master’s words; some tiny, squalling instinct in him screams out its reluctance, it screams at him to say no, to just leave, yet it drowns out in the overwhelming impetus to stay.

“… Yes, my lord,” he whispers at last, and the words tremble upon his lips.

He can almost feel his master’s smile, at once possessive and luxuriant and oh so indulgent, and he scarcely has time to draw in a new breath when he feels a length of cloth being drawn over his eyes. He shivers as his master tightens the knot at the back of his head, blindfolding him utterly; his hands clench into fists by his sides as he feels his master lean over his shoulder, as he feels the tantalizing brush of lips across his cheek, and the first familiar flush of arousal rolls through the pit of his stomach. 

Slowly then his master withdraws; the cool air of the hall grows slick against his skin and after the blind seconds grow unbearable in their tension he starts to turn back around.

“ _Wait_.” His master’s command is firm, yet without cruelty it is given. Deeply he inhales, nervously now he awaits his master’s move, and fuelled by that anxious anticipation the insistent tingle of arousal pulses just a fraction more keenly within him. 

His master’s hands close about his lower arms and under that pressure he freezes. His shoulders tense, for one treacherous moment his muscles lock in denial, in  _refusal_  of what he knows that his master wants of him. Yet as the clotted seconds struggle by he forces himself to relax, his breath comes a little quicker from between his clenched teeth as he tries to convince himself that he does want this, he  _does_ , and at last he allows his master to manoeuvre him. A soft length of ribbon is coiled about his wrists, and he shivers as he feels his master pull the bonds tight, pinning his arms behind his back and securing them there with a slight swell of puissance. 

Yet for all his plaintive abhorrence, if ever he claimed that that shiver was formed in hatred alone then he would have been lying indeed.

“ _Well done, little one,”_  his master purrs, and despite himself a tentative smile curves across his face at his master’s praise. Gently then he feels himself turned about, and as his master catches sight of the last glimmers of that smile slipping from his face he chuckles. A pace forward his master draws him; for a moment he wobbles as his balance falters, the muscles of his bound arms cord beneath his skin as instinct strains to hold him upright. But by his shoulders his master holds him firmly, unobtrusively he steadies him before tugging him forward once more. 

Uncertainly he follows his master’s lead; blinded as he is, it is not easy, yet his master guides him well. Instinct steers him also as his master sinks backwards, and after a few moments of adjustment he is pulled atop his master who sits elegantly now upon the throne. So lewdly his legs are parted, so temptingly he spreads his thighs to straddle his master’s lap, his knees pressing into the warm metal of the throne’s seat beneath him. His master’s breath flushes hotly over his chest, his alluring fingers slip from his arms to grasp him about the hips and pull him yet nearer, and helplessly he is drawn forward and left squirming atop his master’s waist.   

An involuntary little gasp jumps from his lips as swiftly his master stoops, as his master kisses him, his lips ghosting over the flesh just above his navel and sending legion little goosebumps to prick over his skin. Beseechingly he moans as his master continues, as those kisses become harder, firmer, more insistent; and far,  _far_  beyond his voluntary control he feels himself begin to stiffen in earnest.  

Slowly, with the utmost of care his master trails a wet, lapping constellation of kisses up his abdomen, following the slender indentations of his muscles over his stomach, over his chest; and he almost squeaks in delight as he feels his master at last veer from his course, turning from his midline to flick his tongue quickly over his right nipple.

That unlordly little sound swells once more in his throat as his master licks his nipple again, and eagerly he shifts his hips as such dark desire floods through him. His master’s teeth close softly over the engorged little bud, a ragged whimper of pleasure flits from his throat, and futilely he tries writhe away from that sharp sensation. To his left his master switches, and his head tips back in contentment as his master teases him, toying with him in such playful nips of his teeth, with such insidious little pressures; and as his master’s fingers wander up his right hand side to tease him all the more he near thrusts himself into that sensation.

“ _We could pierce them, you know,”_ his master murmurs, punctuating each clause with a lingering, biting kiss over his nipples. “ _Studs, rings; we could adorn you with tinkling little bells. You could wear them for me, my loyal lieutenant, all jingling and oh so ready to please…”_

His master pauses, the moment seems to coalesce as then his master purrs: _“Would you like that, little one?”_

 _“_ N-no,” he stammers, “n…  _ohhh_!” 

His final syllables blend into a filthy moan of pleasure as suddenly his master reaches downwards, as he strokes his ashen fingers up his stiffened length, darting over the pattern of swollen veins that ridge his arousal. Teasingly his master strokes him, his touch is so achingly light, and about his glistening tip his master then swirls his fingers. 

“ _We could pierce so many things…”_

A shuddering groan of desire rips out of his throat, he grinds himself forward into his master’s palm, and gasps then as a giddying rush of sensation courses up through him. Forward still he pushes himself, yet cunningly his master withdraws, and a frustrated moan of thwarted arousal scores out of his throat as he is met with nothing but air. Its echoes linger amid the pillars of the emptied hall, they seem to stain the very shadows of the ceiling, and before him he can almost feel his master’s mirth.

“ _Quiet now, little one_ ,” his master smirks, and beneath him he feels the shift of his master’s thighs; the slip of fabric, the clink of metal and the swell of flesh stirred to ardour.  _“Unless you are begging for an audience?”_  

“N-no,” he gasps, and an instant later he bites perilously hard down upon his lower lip as he feels his master position his hips, as he feels his master’s well-slicked length press against him. A stifled groan wells up in his throat, his cheeks tinge pink with the effort of restraining both it and the desperate buck of his hips as slowly his master slides into him. So languid is the motion, so careful and passionate and so delectably deliberate; it makes him feel so exquisite, so carnally  _full_. It is all he can do not to whimper as his master grasps his hips, as he pushes him down further, his thighs clenching desperately around his master’s waist as his master nudges up against something sublime inside of him. 

A few hissing, eager breaths escape him and fervently he rolls his hips, he tries to coax his master into motion beneath him; into the thrusts that he so loves, into the tiny rocks of his hips that he  _craves_ , but with infuriating calmness his master remains motionless. He yanks at his bonds; so ardently he wishes that his hands were free, that he could touch himself, pleasure himself, just do something to relieve this unyielding, warm ache inside of him. Yet for his efforts the knots hold firm, no matter how hard he might subtly try to squirm against them. 

“ _Impatient, little one?”_ his master smiles, and a slight flush of embarrassment mottles over his cheeks as he realizes just how poorly he is disguising his need. Tenderly his master tilts his hips, with excruciating slowness then he oscillates them; and how he gasps as those sensations seem to ignite within him, bursting into a glowing pit of arousal at the base of his stomach. 

“P-please, my lord…” he breathes, and a moment later his speech cuts off into a strangled grunt as his master once more shifts up against that spot inside of him. Swiftly he bites down upon his lower lip to muffle the whine of pleasure that bubbles up in his throat, and instead the words tumble unbidden from his lips. “Please… p-please…”And in that moment he doesn’t quite know what he is begging for: harder, softer, faster, that desire smashes together within him and becomes legion, tangled and muddled and utterly divine.   

Again he tries to grind himself forward, he tries to press his throbbing length into his master’s hand, into any form of contact,  _anything;_ but his boldness is rewarded only with a stinging slap to his buttock. His yelp rings about the hall, reflex reaction to that impact spurs him into motion and hard he clenches about his master’s length up inside of him; and an instant later his cheeks flush crimson as he hears his master inhale in turn. 

“ _Oh, little one,”_ his master croons; his ashen fingers ghosting up his sides to toy with his nipples once more. Into that touch he arcs himself, and he whines in frustrated need as suddenly his master pulls his hands away. Yet an instant later that whine transmutes to a gasp of delight as the press of his master’s length inside of him becomes just a little more rhythmical, a little more fervent.

Puissance seems to spark beneath his master’s fingertips as he touches him once more; they draw itching, buzzing lines over his ribs, over his chest and his stomach and his thighs that only seem to stoke him higher, each faint touch fizzing with such searing effervescence that he does not know whether to press himself into it or to tear himself away in agony. Following the patterns of his hips his master skates his fingers inwards, crackling lines seem to blossom over his skin as he writhes, as he moans; and the noise that he makes as his master takes his length into his hand once more could have brought the great hall toppling down around him in its shame.

“Oh… oh, _f-fuck_ ,” he moans, he pants, he  _begs_  as his master’s hand closes about him, as every touch of his fingertips sends waves of pounding need crashing up through him. “My… my lord, p-please… please…  _ohh_!” 

His master shifts slightly beneath him, inside him; one burning fingernail traces an engorged vein up his underside and in such sublime torment he keens out his lust. But that desperate, aching series of whimpers is suddenly swallowed as his master bends him forward, as his master’s lips lock upon his own. Violently he throws himself into that kiss, his master’s teeth smash against his lower lip but he doesn’t care, he barely even feels it; that pain unfurls into such jagged, shrieking pleasure inside of him. His master shifts him slightly further, something in their contact changes and he breaks away, his back arcs in utter delight as his master presses yet further up inside of him. And this time his master fucks him in earnest, with slow, strong undulations matching the frantic thrusts and rolls of his hips, and with each rock of his pelvis his master strokes his fingers hard up his length. 

“Please,” he whimpers, and between each hissing intake of breath the words fall raggedly from his lips. “Please, my lord… Can… can I – “

“ _Come for me, little one_ ,” his master purrs; and in that moment he comes undone. 

Hard he thrusts himself forward into his master’s teasing palm, his head tilts wantonly back as with such aching delight he finds his release. His master’s fingers stroke him; a bright burst of ecstasy rips up from the base of his stomach, it crashes up through him and the fullness of his master’s length inside of him sends him spiralling that much higher, and it is all that he can do not to  _scream_  out his lust as he spills his seed into his master’s hand. For boundless seconds it grips him, and he whimpers a series of broken, grateful breaths into the static air before at last that excruciating ardour slips from him. 

Forward he slumps upon his master’s lap, blindly he bows his head to rest it against his master’s shoulder as he tries to gather himself, as he tries to gasp in a steady breath, and after a few mellowing seconds he feels his master move once more. 

He knows what is coming, and despite its repetitions it still has not lost its sting. A fresh tingle of humiliation blushes through him, but he knows that it is expected of him, he knows that his master adores it; and as his master’s sticky fingers touch his lips, softly he parts them. He licks his seed from his master’s fingers, little shudders of distaste run through his bound shoulders as like a panting, mewling dog he laps himself from his master’s palm as if it were some sordid treat; but through the dull, blissful ache of his master’s length still buried up inside of him, through the hazy scatter of his thoughts he cannot quite bring himself to revile it. 

At last his master seems satisfied, he leans forward to kiss him tenderly upon the lips before beginning to lift him up. He groans as his master’s length slips free of him, as a sudden rush of cold air envelops his legs as he is steered back to his unsteady feet, and before the throne then submissively he stands. He hears his master slowly arise, and a slight crinkle of confusion knots his brows behind the blindfold.

“W-what about you, my lord?” he asks, and the fawning, stumbling innocence in his voice nearly makes him cringe to hear it.

He feels his master step behind him, and an instant later the bonds at his wrists fall open. Instantly he rolls out his shoulders, he flexes his arms before him even as his master then tenderly removes his blindfold. 

“ _It pleases me to see you pleased, little one,”_ his master replies simply, before striding to a halt before him. With such devastating fondness his master looks upon him; the gold in his eyes glitters like rich, molten metal as his master takes him by the chin, as he gently raises his head. “ _It is enough.”_

A strange sense of gladness bursts in him then, an emotion somehow honeyed and soft and yet crushing in its puissance. Deeply he inhales, a desperate rill of passion seems to crest within him, it brims up his throat and it forces him to speak. 

“My lord…?” he murmurs, and such is the childish earnestness that illumines his face that his master smiles down at him once more.

_“What is it, little one?”_

_“_ I…” The words are there, he can feel them squirming in his chest, churning in his stomach, those three simple words that would gut him. Yet in his throat they hook, they latch into his skin with little barbs and he cannot wrestle them forth. It is not pride, surely, that snares them; it is something so much deeper, something so much more visceral that he is not even sure has a name, but oh how tightly it binds him to his silence. 

“I…” 

Ashamedly he looks away; the words won’t come and somehow that terrifies him even more than if they had. But tenderly his master smiles down at him, and once he gathers himself enough to force his gaze back to his master’s, in his golden eyes there swims a pale radiance that makes his heart soar. 

Softly his master takes him by the hand, ashen fingers knit through his own and knowingly, reassuringly then they squeeze him. 

“ _I love you too, little one.”_


	7. Adornments

_Possibly the filthiest filth I have ever written, so enjoy it! TW: PIERCING._

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His hands clench within their bonds, the sculpted back of the chair digs hard into his bare shoulder blades as nervously he shifts, as he glances to the dark silhouette of his master standing a few paces away.

So temptingly his master had spoken to him, entreated him; so gracefully had he taken him by the hand. Each caress of his fingers as he stripped the clothes from him was laden with care, each loop and knot of the rope securing his wrists at the chair’s back had ignited a burning cinder of arousal in the pit of his stomach, and yet with his master’s every movement, a curl of trepidation had gripped him.

For before him now his master turns, stepping aside from a low table mostly concealed from his view.

 _“Do you want this, little one?”_ His master saunters towards him, all splendour and concern and such devastating allure, and at the throbbing tenderness in his voice, his breath hitches in his throat.

“I – “

Before more than a syllable can pour over his lips, his master stops them. His legs spread as his master sinks between them, as he leans forward and kisses him, deeply, passionately, with such brutal affection that he wants to scream out its violence. His master’s fingers trail over his thighs, his hips, his pelvis; ashen fingertips ghost over his stirring length and he sends a jagged gasp of arousal punching down his master’s throat.

The air seems to clot in his lungs, desire shivers upon his lips as his master withdraws, as he murmurs, “Yes. Yes, my lord, please…”

 _“You are so brave, little one,”_ his master purrs, before arising once more to wander back to the table, leaving him powerless but to watch as carefully his master selects a few small, unseen objects from the table’s clutter and pockets them within his robes. His heart hammers in his chest as his master turns back around, yet almost unconsciously he tugs against his bonds as his knees part anew; he tries to press himself into his master as he descends back between them. For he knows what is coming, he knows it and he abhors it and he _yearns_ for it, and a shivering gasp of pleasure rushes over his lips as suddenly his master stoops, as a little constellation of stinging, biting kisses is trailed slowly up his stomach.

He squirms as his master’s lips meet the base of his sternum, as each prickling touch sends a great fizz of arousal scorching through him, and as his master veers his course his head tips back in ardour, he whines as his master’s tongue runs over his left nipple. A groan of lust scrapes out of his throat as he feels his master toy with him, his tongue gently coaxing his nipple to stiffness as slyly his fingers slip to his groin, with such tantalising slowness stroking him.

“Please, my lord…” he pants, “p-please…” And in that moment he is not entirely sure what he is pleading for: for the pain that is to come or for this delicious torture to just remain static, to remain infinite and soft and perfect. But in response his master’s focus tightens, he shifts to run his left hand up to his nipple, while with his right he reaches for some unseen item and brings it upwards. Anticipation swirls in his stomach, yet such is the decadence in his master’s smile that instinctively he writhes, his hips sway with the burning arousal left to simmer within him.  

 _“Hold still, little one.”_ His master’s voice is soft; rich and irresistible, but as he feels his master line up the needle, for a needle surely it is that glints within his fingers, he braces himself. With a final, steadying glance at his master he nods, he exhales a shaky breath as his fingers knit together within their bonds, and he closes his eyes in readiness.

A hiss of surprise bursts over his lips as his master pushes the needle through him, for the slightest of instants leaving it skewered through his nipple before withdrawing it. He moans as his master touches him anew, as a tiny length of steel is delicately strung through his nipple and there quickly capped with two rounded ends. With a slight swell of puissance his master solders them, and he flinches as he feels the spell set into the metal; he could not remove it now save for ripping it out of his skin. But where once that thought, that utter, irrevocable _submission_ , might have horrified him, such emotions bleed into something altogether more powerful, into something so dangerously seductive. 

Shakily he smiles down at his master, who grins so brilliantly at him in return that his heart is set soaring. Over the swollen, engorged flesh of his nipple his master runs his tongue but once, eliciting from him a sharp wince of pain. But so swiftly does that wince transmute into a desperate groan of arousal as his master palms him once more, his fingers teasing up his achingly stiff length. They smear through the glistening wetness at his tip, his master beams at such a visceral reaction, and so lasciviously then does he lean in to kiss him that it nearly stops the breath in his lungs. 

 _“You have always been so loyal,”_ his master purrs, his voice like honey dripping from his teeth. A thrill of ardour rocks up through him as his master strokes him harder, and an instant later his cheeks flush crimson as the echoes of his moan reverberate in scandalous chorus about the room. He writhes within his bonds as he feels his master lean to the left, such awful desire burns in his stomach as he feels his master’s tongue dance over his right nipple, and every muscle in him tenses for one brilliant moment as he feels his teeth close upon it. 

Scarcely has that fresh sting dissipated, the filthy percussion of his moan still lingers in his ears as he feels the cold touch of metal resting lightly upon him. His breath comes heavier over his lips, his hair hangs in a tousled cascade over the back of his chair as he waits, as his master pauses, and whether it is out of savouring his suffering or in genuine concern he does not dare consider. Simply he flexes his shoulders within his bonds, and desperately he begs, “Please, my lord, _please_ … Do it…”

_“You are sure, little one?”_

“Yes,” he breathes, the words dropping hotly, tightly, painfully from his lips. “Yes. P-please. I want to do it. I want to do it for you. Please, I – _ohhh_!”

His back arcs as his master slides the needle through him, he presses himself into that pain, and a terrible flush of arousal prickles through his chest as languidly it is withdrawn, only to be replaced with his master’s soothing fingers once more. Tenderly his master guides the short metal bar through him, his fingers brush over reddened, hurting flesh as he seals the rounded caps upon its ends, rendering the piercing immoveable but for his will.

 _“You did so well, little one,”_ his master croons, but its sweetness is lost in the guttural moan that erupts from his throat as his master kisses him upon the piercing. His master’s tongue nudges a ball-cap; it rolls the bar just slightly within his nipple, sending a bright burst of both pain and hot, throbbing arousal coursing up through him. 

A broken keen of lust trembles over his lips, desperately he arcs his hips up into his master’s touch, his arms left sore and straining within his bonds. And his head tips back into a wordless cry of pleasure as his master finally obliges him in earnest, dipping down to plant a series of trailing little kisses up his length, to swirl his tongue impishly about his tip. His master’s fingers dance and tap and scratch their maddening way along his inner thighs, slicing delicate patterns over his skin, and it is all that he can do not to buck in squealing delight as his master takes him fully. But oh what excruciating bolts of pleasure scourge through him as his master’s tongue slides up his length, darting along the engorged veins that ridge him, teasing ever so slightly at his slit. 

“M-my lord…” he stammers, he pants, he _gasps_ with the thrill of it. “Oh… oh _f-fuck,_ my lord… _ohhhh!”_ His words tumble into a whining exhalation as his master for a moment withdraws, leaving his body screaming with thwarted desire. 

For in that moment his master simply drinks him in; the tempting spread of his thighs, the flush of his cheeks, the soreness of his nipples and the sparkling little facets of metal that gleam within them, that glint so magnificently with each new movement. His master’s fingertips dig more firmly into his thighs, a gluttonous smile curves over his lips, and into that pressure he splays himself. His cheeks burn crimson as with wild, panting abandon he presses himself towards his master, towards the single solitary being that he _craves_ , the one that he would bleed for, hurt for; the one, the _only_ one, that he would ever submit himself to.

A wondrous light suffuses his master’s eyes then; tender and golden and ferocious, but soft are his words, and almost reverent is his touch as he strokes over his new piercings, as so gently, infuriatingly, achingly, _exquisitely_ he begins to coax him higher once more. 

_“You have never looked so beautiful, little one.”_


	8. The Sparring Ring

_An old one from Tumblr that I realised I hadn't crossposted. Melkor invites Mairon to the sparring ring._

* * *

 

“ _Mairon?”_

His master’s voice jolts him abruptly from his concentration, sending his heart thudding within his chest as unwary shock grips him. He had not even heard the door open. His head whips upwards, the sheaves of parchment spread over the desk before him stir with the force of his movement as he jumps. After a hideous moment of utter surprise he lunges forward across the table, stilling a wobbling pot of ink that threatens to spill itself over his work.

“ _I am sorry,”_ his master smiles, and a note of wry contrition hums in his voice as he watches him curiously from the doorframe. Hurriedly he sweeps his papers into some sort of order in front of him, hastily he retracts his legs from where they sprawl across a chair opposite him, and he scrapes his fingers through the messy, unbound sweep of his hair as he hauls himself up into an entirely more proper sitting position. 

“It is all right, my lord,” he says, grimacing a little in distaste as he eyes the shuffled papers before him. “You just startled me. I was just…” He waves his hand vaguely over the sheaves of parchment, and his spidery scrawl of chemical equations patterned over them, and at last he mutters, “… thinking.”

“ _Am I disturbing something important?”_ His master’s voice is quiet, sincere; and faintly he smiles in response.

“No,” he sighs, and irritation prickles in his voice as he says it. His lip curls as he leans back in his chair, as he scowls down at the masses of unbalanced, incomplete equations that swarm over the parchment before him. “Not really…”

At his reticence his master smiles, teasingly he cocks his head before stepping through the marble doorway. To the side of his carven desk his master saunters, before upon his right he pauses, looking vaguely over his work with a placid simmer to his golden eyes. Over the scratched-out annotations his master’s eyes wander, upon the questioning glyphs and uncertain circles and equation pathways written, slashed through, and written again in his fine handwriting his master’s eyes linger, and a gentle smile curves over his master’s lips.

 _“What is wrong, little one?”_ his master murmurs, and from below him then he sighs, sweeping the papers to his left and glumly resting his elbows upon the desk’s edge.

“It’s not…” he begins brokenly, clumsily; the admittance of failure lies rancorously upon his tongue. “It’s not _working_ , my lord. These equations, they do not fit. With a catalyst, perhaps cobalt or oxides of vanadium we could… But…” Bitterly he trails off, hard he stares down at the uncaring whorls of the oaken desk before him, and slightly nervously he awaits his master’s reaction.

“ _You’re stuck,”_ his master intones, yet where he expected anger, a gentle humour glimmers in his voice. Still though, it is of little comfort, and an unflattering expression of disgust contorts over his features as belligerently he crosses his arms over his chest. “ _Come with me.”_  

“My lord?” he asks, blinking up at his master in confusion.

“ _Come, little one_ ,” his master repeats, and to him then his master extends his hand. “ _A distraction will suit you well.”_

He frowns a little in puzzlement: absent is the mischievous note in his master’s voice that might precede a more salacious request, and that sparks a little cinder of curiosity within him. Heavily he sighs, half-heartedly he eyes the irksome papers upon his desk before abruptly he shakes himself free of their mire. Slowly then he smiles, he uncrosses his arms from his chest and he takes his master’s hand, and at his master’s quite genuine smile his heart leaps within his chest. Softly he allows his master to steer him, to pull him from the room and into the corridors beyond, and in companionable silence together they wind through the squat, labyrinthine passageways of Utumno’s keep. 

“My lord?” As the minutes trickle by still he walks beside his master, and confusion grows all the greater within him as they stride past the carven doors of the throne room, they walk briskly through the lesser halls and deeper on into the bowels of the fortress. Eventually he can contain himself no longer, and though the plaintiveness of the question digs at him, he asks, “My lord, where are we going?” 

For a moment his master does not reply, and a cold chill of premonition casts itself about his heart. Oft too charming his master had seemed of late, the smiles that he wore were of occasion too cruel, and to what treacherous end such subtle entreaties might lead he hesitates to imagine. But after a few more paces he hears his master inhale, and his deep voice answers him in a strangely airy tone.

“ _I was possessed of a strange desire for physical uptake,”_ his master says, glancing down at him as they walk. “ _I was hoping that you might indulge me, Mairon, should you be so kind.”_

His brow furrows in confusion as he trails his master deeper down a flight of stairs, and falteringly he replies, “Sorry, my lord? I don’t…”

“ _Spar with me, little one_ ,” his master purrs, pausing upon the stairs and spinning sharply upon his heel to face him caught a step or two above. Almost mischievously his master tilts his head, his golden eyes flick upwards to him and behind them something daring glitters. “ _If you would_.”   

“Spar with you?” he splutters, somewhat taken aback by such an unexpected request. For a moment he blinks in confusion, the words catch upon his lips as desperately he tries to sift through the tangled implications of what, if anything, his master might truly want from him.

“ _Only if you are willing, little one_.” At the honey in his master’s words he slips, confusion and surprise topple into an unbidden willingness as so temptingly his master looks at him, at once beseechingly and innocently and oh so _lasciviously_.  

“Very well,“ he sighs at last; and the dazzling grin with which his master flashes him sends the blood shivering through his veins. 

Deeper into the bowels of the fortress they descend, until after several minutes cloistered in narrow, dour passageways they emerge into a series of subterranean caverns that house the sparring rings. To the Balrog guards who snap to attention as they enter his master nods politely, and smoothly then his master leads him through a bolted door and into the armoury.   

The mingled smells of sweat, leather and tarnished metal wash over him, and he is oddly comforted within their lull as he steps fully into the armoury’s depths. Resolving himself then to this unexpected venture, and his master already rummaging through the contents of a barrel in the far corner of the room, he casts about for suitable attire. Atop his plain shirt and breeches he dons a stiff, tanned-leather jerkin, its front studded with reinforced shingles of steel. Swiftly he adjusts the knots that clasp it together at his side, and as he fiddles with them his eyes flicker over to his master. The sweeping black robes that his master had worn were elegantly shrugged aside to reveal a cuirass of his own; a great shirt of ringmail overlaid with flexible, dark leather.  

He wiggles the jerkin about his shoulders as he draws the final knots tight, and from a well-oiled pile of armour he plucks up a set of greased vambraces and buckles them over his forearms, tucking the billowy ends of his sleeves securely beneath the wide straps. He dons also a pair of tough, half-fingered gloves, and over to the racks of practise weaponry then he strolls, scraping his fingers through his hair and fastening it into a messy ponytail as he does so. From the ponderous racks of weapons lain before him at last he settles upon two blunted knives, flipping their foot-long blades over in his hands, and as he weighs their balance he finds them satisfactory. 

Contented enough then he turns towards his master, and his eyes flare wide in alarm as he glimpses his master reaching towards the handle of an immense war-hammer propped up against the armoury’s far wall. A pall of horror settles over him as he watches his master step forward, for one traitorous moment he desperately gropes for whatever excuse he might think to throw before him to spare himself from facing his master so perilously armed. Yet to his colossal relief he is spared that distasteful course: his master swings aside and instead takes hold of a far more conservative broadsword. Its dulled edges gleam in the torchlight as his master holds it aloft, and it is all that he can do not to breathe an audible sight of relief as his master nods approvingly, and his grip tightens about the sword’s hilt.

To the wide, bulbous series of caverns beyond he follows his master, the caverns’ glossy marble domes crawling with fractured slicks of light as the numerous torches set into their walls crackle softly in the gloom. Sand crunches under his boots as he follows his master further through the caverns, until into a sheltered ring at their furthermost corner they arrive. Quickly he eyes his surrounds; only the domed slope of the cavern walls standing some fifteen paces in diameter delineate the boundaries of the ring. 

Grimly he notes such measurements, yet the sternness of his mood is not quite enough to stifle the sudden apprehension that wells up in his stomach as he sees his master ready himself. More than a small flutter of nervousness grips him as he strides to an opposing position. Rarely has he seen his master take up arms, whether in true combat or in sporting jest with his followers, but the worrying ease with which his master grasps his sword belies a mastery of the weapon that bodes ill. Anticipation clenches through him, but mustering himself he turns to face his master; he digs his heels firmly into the sand beneath him as he sets his stance, rolling out his shoulders in expectation of the exertion to come.

“ _You are readied, Mairon?”_ his master enquires, and the smooth roll of his voice sends adrenaline skewering through him.

“Yes, my lord,” he replies evenly, and as he raises his knives to a guarded stance before him he stamps out the fizz of his nervousness into cool, simmering potential.

“ _Do not hold back_.”

“Of course not, my lord,” he says, perhaps more brashly than he intends to. “Why ever – “ 

The remnants of his sentence are sent scattering to the darkest crevices of the cavern as his master lunges forward, and in shock he reels backwards. Almost quicker than sight his master’s blade slashes upwards in a sweeping cross-stroke, and he is nearly too slow to dodge it. Instinct screeches at him to move, his stomach muscles feel like they might rip with the effort of hauling his upper body backwards, and the silvery blur of his master’s sword skates over his jerkin with only perilous few centimetres to spare.

In the desperation of that move he comes so pitifully undone. His balance tilts askew as he staggers backwards, and it is painfully light work for his master to flick the flat of his blade towards his ankles, sending him tumbling backwards to the sand. 

Upon his back he lands, an unflattering exhalation of breath punches out over his teeth with the impact, and for a breathless moment then he stares up at his master in astonishment. Yet an instant later something ignites within him, some biting impulse rips up from the base of his stomach and it forces him to inhale anew, determination screams at him to move. His hands clench into bloodless fists about the hilts of his knives; angrily, embarrassedly he scrambles to his feet, a cascade of sand falling from his back as he looks indignantly at his master.

“ _Overconfidence will prove your undoing, little one_ ,” his master says silkily, eyeing him for a moment before stalking away in a wide circle to halt some metres opposite him. “ _Focus_.”

Without further ado his master commences, wheeling his blade about in a savage arc that flashes towards him almost quicker than his eyes can follow. _Almost_ quicker. For this time he is readied, he has sensed his master’s ploy and readily anticipated it, and his knives snap outwards to meet the challenge. 

With the screech of metal upon metal his master’s attack slides from his parry, and as his right blade bears the brunt of the impact he twists under and forwards to his left. But with terrifying speed his master whirls, and where his knife jabbed towards his master’s chest it slices through nothing but air. A snarl of annoyance curls over his lip, he throws his weight behind the fluid slipstream of his momentum, and his movement contorts into a quick, spiralling pirouette before he strikes low and fast towards his master’s shins. Yet his master’s blade is there to parry him, his knives clatter against the sword’s fuller with an impact that jars uncomfortably up his arms. 

Against that discomfort he grimaces, and perhaps unwisely he presses forwards into that grinding contact, hoping that with the shift of his weight he might wrench a knife free of the pressure and from there plunge forward. But with one powerful flex of his shoulders his master shifts their equilibrium, and he can do little more than ride the swell of that force. His knives are pushed free of that contact, he is forced backwards a pace or two to balance himself, but swiftly he recovers, his heels digging determined little furrows into the sand beneath him as once more he stands proudly. 

Hard he breathes through his nostrils, the aftershocks of that blunt pressure tremble through his arms yet quickly he flicks them aside. Brute force would not avail him here, though strong in body he is simply no match for his master’s bulk; and his eyes narrow as he tries to assess a new line of attack. For a moment his master does not press him, indeed warily they begin to circle each other, as the seconds crawl by each subtly dares the other into action with the taunting beckon of a blade tip, an arrogant cock of the head, the tiny, lascivious smile that curves over his master’s lips. 

His patience is the first to buckle. For a moment his master’s guard seems to waver and explosively he launches himself forward, his left blade coiled in close to his chest and his right extended as he cuts towards his master’s exposed left. Yet as he crosses the metres of sand between them his master smiles, with frightening agility he twists, deflecting his calculated strike into a mere glance off the sword’s edge. He feels his knife grate askew, a snarl of frustration scores out of his throat as that bold snatch at victory goes unrewarded, and he whirls back around to parry the volley of slashes that his master sends hailing down upon him.

Elegantly he dodges a blow sent scything towards his side, and as his master recoils to move again, instinct spurs him forward. Towards his master’s left hip he dives, his left blade snaps up to parry his master’s sword as his right aims for the mark. Yet with a fluidity that takes him completely by surprise his master sidesteps him, feinting away to the right whilst simultaneously reaching forward to grasp him about his outstretched right wrist. With such terrible certainty he feels his master’s fingers close about his arm and pull, he feels his inertia buckle, warp, become corrupt, and so dangerously he has extended himself that with a dull resignation he knows exactly to what end such a miscalculation will lead.

An instant later, he is spitting out a mouthful of sand. Face down upon the floor he sprawls; the foul taste of grit coats his tongue and his head throbs with the concussion of such a blunt landing. Dimly he senses his master withdraw, painfully he heaves himself up to his elbows, and as his master comes to a suave halt beside him he turns himself gingerly about to sit upon the sand. A great smear of grit clouds over his jerkin, the edge of his lip mottles cherry red as a bright sand-abrasion blossoms across it, and as he probes at it tenderly with his tongue he hisses at its sting. He winces as he shakes out his wrist, his master’s grip had been none too gentle, and as the breath begins to flow more easily back into his lungs he casts about himself for his dropped knives.

 _“You are unhurt?”_ Before him his master shifts, and though his question is blunt the note of genuine concern in it sets a smile tingeing the edges of his lips. 

“Yes, my lord,” he replies at last, sucking in a few fortifying breaths and taking up his knives once more.

“ _You are fast, little one_ ,” his master remarks, and a surge of conceited pride storms through him at such praise. To him his master extends his right hand to help him up, his sword swopped to a loose grip within his left, and gratefully he reaches for his master’s offer of assistance. _“But not yet fast enough.”_

Even as his fingers lock about his master’s proffered hand, to his left he lunges. He kicks hard against the sand beneath him, using his master’s own pull he helps to propel himself, and his left blade snaps towards his master’s thighs. Instantly his master forgoes his hand as he jumps back a few paces, and such a thrill of gratifying pleasure bursts in his chest as he sees the iridescent surprise in his master’s eyes. Before him he raises his knives, slipping into a neutral if slightly smug guard as cautiously he appraises his master.

“ _Very good_ ,” his master purrs as coolly he slips into a guard stance in kind. “ _You are learning, little one_.” 

He spits a grainy gobbet of saliva to the sand beneath him, hastily he shakes the escaped strands of his hair from his vision, and his silver eyes narrow with predatory precision as he watches his master standing before him. His knives flex impatiently in his hands as his fingers clench about their hilts, keenly he follows the drift of his master’s sword-point as it wanders lazily before him. His master trails it in absent, abstract patterns through the air, and as it floats to his master’s extreme left, at that careless chink in his master’s seemingly impenetrable armour he strikes.

Viciously he thrusts himself forward, he sprints across the narrow strip of sand to angle his full weight behind the downwards slash of his left knife, before jabbing his right blade towards his master’s chest. But _impossibly_ , his master’s blade is there to meet him. With the clang of crunching metal his knives are turned, and as he struggles to recover himself from such a reckless attack his master presses home the advantage. 

Desperately he parries his master’s cleaving downwards blow; his arms tremble with the effort of staying that strike not inches from the crown of his head until violently he jerks himself away, spinning aside from the inertia of that force before aiming a low, dirty kick towards his master’s ankles. Easily his master dodges him, a cunning smile curves over his master’s features as he recognizes the rather unchivalrous trick, and swiftly his master demonstrates to him the cost of such behaviour.

A flurry of strikes sends him skittering backwards, his heart hammers in his chest as suddenly, awfully he can feel himself flounder, he can feel his parries begin to come slower under his master’s relentless onslaught. Though not slower, he realizes; somehow through the frantic squabble of his mind that thought penetrates with clarity as he glances a blow off his knives, as he ducks a swing sent whistling towards his head. His master’s attacks if anything seem to keep coming _faster_ , and truly that sends a note of dismay chiming through him. 

Hard he grits his teeth, a grimace of frustration contorts his features as he feels himself being forced backwards; the sand seems to melt away under his boots as with every fresh attack his master steers him back a pace, but under that assault he still stands proudly. To surrender untimely would be the utmost of disgraces, it would be a blaspheme against all that he is, and with cruel vehemence he lets that determination pound through him, drive him, fill him with its boldness.

He ducks low beneath a slash left sweeping towards his shoulder, and though his thighs seem to shriek with the effort of it in the midst of his motion dead he arrests his momentum, and an instant later he slams himself forward, his knives wielded sharp and low towards his master’s hips. And for a moment he can almost _smell_ the victory, the sand and salty tang of blood upon his lips taste of nothing but triumph, but even as his knives seek to slam into his master’s armour, _somehow_ his master parries him. Raw disbelief pours through him; that should not be possible, that _cannot_ be possible; he was so close, so maddeningly, infuriatingly close. A groan of dismay rips out of his throat a moment later as fully he feels the impact of that parry, the collision crunches through him no matter how much he tries to shield himself from it, and his right knife is sent skidding out of his hand with the torsion. It lands with a resigned thump in the sand some metres away, and that miserable fall seems to herald his collapse.

In two swift moves his master slams his left arm aside, a sharp knock to his inner elbow leaves his forearm deadened, and his remaining knife hangs listlessly from his numbed fingers. Yet still he stands, he tears himself away from his master as he tries to rebalance; he tries to grip the knife anew. But his fingers will not obey him, the knife tumbles clumsily from his hand, and before he can move an inch to recover it he feels the cold metal of his master’s sword pressing into his neck.

A sigh of frustration and bitter acknowledgment heaves through him, but though disarmed he still stands proudly, for a moment he considers some foolish dive to reprise his knife and continue with their bout. But such theatrics would not avail him, and as his master’s sword presses a little more firmly into him that dim temptation fades into inconsequence. 

The question flickers in his master’s eyes, and reticently it is answered. Disappointment twinges at the edges of his lips, but briskly then he nods, and his master accepts his submission. The sword lifts from him, his master wheels it into a neutral grip at his side, and suddenly devoid of purpose he staggers a few paces back to lean against the cavern wall. A breath that he did not know he had held rushes out of his lungs, and as he breathes anew, life seems to crackle through his numb fingertips, like little pinpricks of flame blistering under his skin. He gasps as that unpleasant sensation grips him, hastily he shakes out his hand, and as true discomfort shows upon his face, gently his master asks, _“Are you hurt, little one?”_

“No,” he replies, perhaps too quickly, and at the strain in his voice his master arcs an eyebrow. “No,” he repeats, yet even as he bows his head to squint down at his fingers he cannot quite disguise the pain in his voice. “It’s fine… I… it’s just sore…”

“ _I did not mean to hurt you_ ,” his master says, and such is the sincerity in his voice that disbelievingly he raises his head.

“I know,” he smiles, a little shakily, and as his master steps forward to take him softly by the cheek his heart nearly skips a beat in his chest.

“ _You fought valiantly, little one_ ,” his master murmurs, stroking a few errant grains of sand from his cheekbone with his thumb. “ _Not one in ten thousand could have held their own like that. And none, I think, would be so bold as to try_.”       

His cheeks flush with childish pride as his master’s praise flows over him; it sets a contented little flame alight in the pit of his stomach. But desperately he reels in such indulgent emotions, and with as much dignity as he can manage through the pink flush of his face he mumbles, “Well, my lord… I – I had a very skilled exemplar.”

At that his master laughs, a true grin of merriment cracks over his handsome face, and his hand moves from his cheek to clap him fondly about his shoulder. 

“ _Nay, little one. Such accolades are undeserved; it is you truly who has excelled themselves. Now come_ ,” his master commands, “ _let us retire. This day has seemed an age in its wearing, yet the eve still is young. Would you dine with me? It has been too long since we have talked, as we used to of old_.”

“Of course, my lord,” he replies eagerly, and the radiant smile that his master bestows upon him near sets his heart tumbling. With a suave nod then his master strides back towards the armoury, and after a pausing a moment to collect up his scattered knives swiftly he follows, tracing his long way back through Utumno’s dark arteries and to whatever the night might yet bring.   


	9. Obedience

_Warnings for this fic in particular: pet-play and asphyxiation. Written for and partially accredited to the wonderful aulendil-mairon on tumblr, who planted the sordid seeds of this fic in my head, and then look what sprouted! Melkor and Mairon as usual, and Mairon's typical POV._

* * *

 

_“The failings in your command are becoming more pertinent of late.”_

A chill edge snaps in his master’s voice. Already he had been commanded him to strip, a cruel smile had curled over his master’s lips as fruitlessly he had protested, and naked now upon his knees he scowls. A curl of guilt flits through his stomach, not unjustly does his master speak, yet that guilt transmutes only into nervousness as he gazes up at his master sitting imperiously upon the end of his four-posted bed.

“ _Your beasts are becoming wild_ ,” his master growls, and at the menace in his voice he flinches. His fingernails dig tense little furrows into the flesh of his hands held clenched behind his back, they show almost as pink as the puncture-marks that still scab across his master’s knuckles where one of his wolves had so unwisely bitten. “ _They are grown savage. Untamed_.” 

With a taut breath he steels himself; despite his apprehension and the precariousness of his position he musters to himself what lordliness he can, and evenly he begins, “My lord, the wolf has been reprimanded. It was never my intent –“

Almost faster than sight his master lunges from the bed; ashen fingers knot through his hair and yank his head sharply backwards, cutting off his speech with a strangled squeak. His knees slip upon the marble as his master hauls him backwards, upwards; his back arcs as desperately he tries to maintain his balance, his hands clasp helplessly around his master’s grip upon him even as his master shakes him, as his master spits, _“I care not for your intent, Mairon.”_

Roughly his master discards him, he yelps as his master’s hands rip free of his hair, and even as he opens his mouth to plead, to make his futile explanations, his master grabs him hard by the back of the neck, his fingernails biting into his skin. 

_“I care not for your excuses.”_

Something within him seems to buckle as his master kicks his legs apart, whatever veneer of haughtiness that he clings to shatters as his master grabs his wrists, as he binds them tightly at the small of his back, the thin leather cords cutting into his skin even as he twists, as he protests. “Please, my lord. Please, I didn’t mean– “ 

His master’s hand stops his mouth, fingers like iron claws dig into his cheeks and they force his gaze upwards, they force him now to look into his master’s eyes, and the cold contempt that he finds there sends dread cramping through his guts.

 _“Even now,”_ his master sneers, _“you demonstrate your lack of discipline. Sorely your ineptitudes tempt my patience, little one. You prove yourself no better than your subjects.”_

He trembles as his master relinquishes him, those points of pressure ache upon his face as his master reaches for something laid upon the bed sheets.

“ _Animals must learn their place.”_

A collar unfurls from his master’s hand, and at the very sight of it he blanches in horror. A thin length of chain hangs looped in upon itself; it dangles almost merrily from a short leather leash, and at the vicious barbs that punctuate its inner facets truly he quails. 

“N-no, my lord,” he begs, upon his knees he writhes as his master steps towards him, he struggles as the loosened collar is slipped about his neck and fastened there securely. “No, please, _please_ , my lord, please don’t... I’m sorry, _I’m s-sorry_ , I – “

His master yanks hard upon the chain, its coiled length constricts, and his words are severed as the spikes jam sharply into his neck. With a miserable whimper he falls silent, upon his knees he sways with the ignominy of it, and he dares not look up, he dares not face his master, he dares not glimpse what look of disdain or anger or such horrifying pleasure might mar his handsome features. 

Yet tenderly his master reaches down, ashen fingers stroke his cheeks, they trace over the helices of his ears; his master caresses him as if he were some precious pet to be coddled and adored and abused upon his capricious whims, and beneath his master’s mocking fingers his cheeks flush crimson. Sharp nails scrape over his lips, his master parts them slightly, slicking his fingers in saliva, and as he shakes with the degradation of it he can almost feel his master smile. 

And instinctively he knows what his master wants, all those lingering little touches across his lips seem to burn their abhorrent purpose into him, and though every wounded shred of pride in him screams its protest, slowly he parts his lips for his master. Shakily, gently, like some perverse little lapdog he licks at his master’s fingers, he nuzzles his face into them, and he nearly cringes in debasement as he hears his master purr, “ _Good boy_.” 

“P-please - ” he gulps, yet no further syllables can cross his lips before his master slaps him across the cheek; one sharp, stinging blow that silences him with a low whimper of terror.

 _“Oh, little one,”_ his master tuts. _“Scarcely a fitting way for a beast like you to behave, now is it?”_

He scrambles backwards as best as he can as he sees his master lift the gag from his pocket, yet an instant later his master jerks him forwards once more. He splutters as the chain constricts about his windpipe, as the spikes jab into the sensitive skin of his throat, he tosses his head like some trapped, terrified animal as his master reaches for him. He whines as his master’s fingers close about him, his eyes water with the effort of resistance as he clamps his jaw shut, but as his master’s fingers dig with bruising force into his cheeks at last he relents.

A shuddering breath forces its way into his lungs as his master guides the gag behind his teeth, prying his jaw lewdly open about the hollow metal ring, and he whimpers as his master buckles the straps cruelly tight about the back of his head. 

 _“There, now,”_ his master coos; so condescendingly he pats him upon the head, and shame slams through him anew. _“There, isn’t that better?”_

Slowly, waveringly, he nods, and as a thin trickle of saliva drips over his chin to puddle humiliatingly between his spread knees, his master’s eyes light up with glee.

 _“Come, little one.”_ A gentler pull upon the leash guides him to his feet, and reluctantly he stands. Stumblingly he follows where his master leads him, blank horror hisses and shrieks its muted way through his mind, and it is not until his master reaches the outer doors of his rooms that he balks. Desperately he shakes his head; a pleading, garbled whine rips out of his throat, and at him his master sneers. 

 _“This is an exercise in obedience.”_ The threat in his voice is chilling, and slowly the pressure about his neck begins to tighten. _“I suggest that you heed it.”_

A hitching sob of shame and loathing catches in his throat as his master pulls the door open, as helplessly he is dragged into the corridor outside, and it is all that he can do to place one foot in front of the other as the sheer degradation of it crashes down upon him. So casually his master saunters down the corridor, so callously he tugs upon the leash, and desperately he presses himself to his master’s heels, his head bowed as if somehow he could hide his nakedness, he could be swallowed up into his master’s shadow and simply make himself disappear. 

Maybe it would be over the quicker, he thinks frantically, maybe if he is good then his master would be done with him and this sordid display of submission. Tightly he clutches to that tremulous thought as the points of the collar dig into his neck, as his arms twist and burn within their bonds, as a humiliating strand of saliva drools uncontrollably over his chin to drip down onto his chest. 

Over Angband’s mercifully emptied upper floors they wind, and with each snatch of distant, half-muffled conversation, his heart clenches within his chest. Yet for their seclusion his master leads him without kindness; ever he toys with the leash, tightening and slackening the collar about his neck, until with a savage jerk he is pulled up short before a large carven pillar laid into the corridor’s decor. 

 _“You could hump it, if you like,”_ his master remarks, with such stinging malice in his voice that he shivers to hear it. _“It is what beasts like you desire, is it not? Such wanton acts of passion. Such self-serving abasements of need…”_

Such paralysing horror grips him at the lewdness of his master’s suggestion; desperately, beseechingly he presses himself to his master’s side, he nudges into his shoulder like some well-trained pet, and in a series of broken, humiliated little noises he keens out his plea of refusal.

 _“Shh, little one,”_ his master murmurs, eyeing the pillar salaciously for a brief moment longer before turning aside. _“Perhaps not, hmm? For disobedient things like you are undeserving of such pleasures. It would be an indulgence. It would be a reward, and that would hardly be befitting, now would it?”_

It takes every ounce of his failing willpower to force himself to nod; the smugness of his master’s smirk feels as though it might cleave him in two. A retching sob bubbles up out of his throat as his master tugs him onwards, slamming the chain into his throat and digging the spikes agonisingly hard into his skin.

Every step of his march seems to last for an eternity, yet somehow he endures it, at last he is trailing his master back through the doors to his rooms, to his bedchamber. And so fervently he prays that it is over, that his master is done with his games and would just let him leave, would let him scamper away and lick his wounds and pretend like it never happened. He could pretend that his master still loves him, he could pretend that this is what he wants; yet as a sharp whistle chirps over his master’s lips, his heart sinks in his chest.

“Heel,” his master commands, and shame prickles through him anew as clumsily he kneels at the foot of the bed. His hair hangs in a dishevelled mess about his face; ugly, reddened marks ring his neck as the collar needles into him, and he retches once more as his master jerks upon the leash, forcing him to raise his face even as that hideous impact chokes him. 

An inchoate moan echoes out around the gag as longingly, pleadingly he looks to his master, tears of true contrition standing in his eyes. 

His master stares coldly back at him. His mood is yet fey.  

“ _Have you learned your lesson, little one?”_

A sadistic light gleams in his master’s golden eyes as desperately he nods, as so imploringly he whines, so degradingly he looks up. He nudges into his master’s leg with his face as he simply begs for this humiliation to end. 

Yet something cruel plays about his master’s lips, and every swelling hope that he has within him is so devastatingly severed as his master turns aside, as he loops the end of the leash about a bedpost before knotting it there securely.

 _“Nay, Mairon,”_ his master purrs. Such gutting disdain flows in his master’s silken voice, and it is all that he can do not to cry as his master pushes him still naked, bound and gagged to the cold marble below, as he jerks the collar tight about his neck.

_“My little lieutenant I would invite to my bed; my shining, loyal Maia I would so honour. But you, now, crowned only in your disgrace? Nay. Dogs sleep on the floor.”_


	10. Lying To Yourself, Again

_A response to a request on Tumblr for Gothmog being the truest of friends, as I deeply headcanon him and Mairon to be. And that friendship was never more important than in some of Melkor's less noble moments. **TW: abuse, heavily implied rape, gore.**_

* * *

 

**“No, _really_!”**

“Gothmog, you jest,” Langon exclaimed, he crossed his arms over his chest as he leaned back against the corridor’s wall. “That cannot be true.”

 **“It is,”** the Balrog rumbled, a mischievous glint in his yellowish eyes. **“I’m telling you, he calls it ‘The Mighty Arising’.”**

“Well, how _crude_ ,” Thuringwethil giggled, and Langon beside her stifled a snort of laughter. She shook her long black curls from her face, and with that motion she glanced knowingly down the corridor, towards where a familiar blond silhouette slipped out of a stairwell and vanished around a corner. 

Following her gaze her two companions stared also, and Gothmog said playfully, **“Fine, I’ll get the _official_ confirmation then for you two non-believers.”**

Even clad in semi-humanoid _fána_ , Gothmog’s cloven hoof left an ashy imprint upon the marble as he turned upon his heel, as he began to stride down the corridor and called, **“Mairon!”**  

Swiftly he rounded the corner, from some few metres down the next walkway he saw Mairon for an instant look back over his shoulder, before stiffly turning away. 

 **“Hey, Mairon, wait…”** Gothmog jogged the short distance between them, but Mairon darted aside into an adjacent corridor. **“Mairon!”**

“Go away, Gothmog.” The shrillness in his friend’s voice pulled him up short; the tightness of Mairon's steps even half shrouded in shadows as he was sent a sharp, sudden spear of concern plunging through Gothmog’s heart, and warily he rounded the final corner. 

 **“Mairon?”** To Gothmog's horror he watched as his friend staggered, as Mairon tipped clumsily about to crunch his back and shoulder blades into the wall, and there he stood numbly. Gothmog’s eyes widened in alarm at that worryingly laboured movement, and hurriedly he stepped forward. **“Mairon, hey? Hey, are you all right?”**

Dishevelled strands of blond hair veiled his friend’s face from view, yet as he moved closer Gothmog could see with such terrible clarity the shudders that trembled through Mairon’s body, and that combined with the Maia’s silence only sent a great flood of concern washing through his stomach. 

He moved to grasp Mairon gently by the upper arm, softly he stroked the fall of hair back from his face, and the livid welt that he found there splayed across his cheek near clotted the breath in his lungs. Burst capillaries cracked over Mairon’s cheekbone, the entire left side of his face was swollen, and at the curve of his jaw the vile mark was already purpling with the trauma. 

 **“Oh,”** Gothmog choked, it was more a noise of dismay than an actual word as below him Mairon began to shiver in earnest, as his knees began to buckle. **“Oh, _fuck_ , Mairon…”     **

His friend’s legs crumpled, and quickly Gothmog stooped to right him. Yet with that awkward movement Mairon’s thighs parted, they betrayed only the wetness that stuck the insides of his dark leggings to him, and of what unsavoury fluid was sodden there Gothmog did not want to know. A great surge of protectiveness, of _outrage_ rose in the Balrog’s heart, he shifted his grip to support Mairon across his back, yet still his friend whimpered at his touch.

 **“Sorry,”** Gothmog mumbled; through the tight, clawing grasp of his concern he relaxed his grip as much as he dared. **“Come on. Come on; let’s get you out of here, all right? Let’s go.”**

Slowly, painfully Mairon nodded; his eyes squeezed shut as silent tears of pain and humiliation trickled down his bruised cheeks, and Gothmog held his most of his weight upon one burly arm as he limped back to his rooms, his hips and pelvis aching.

To the bathing rooms that sprung as small offshoots to his main chambers Gothmog led him, and in the warm steam of the geothermal springs the Valarauka helped him at last to stand unsupported, and after a tentative pause began to aid in peeling off his sweaty, rumpled clothes.

And how the Balrog’s eyes seethed with indignation as Mairon’s shirt slid free, as it exposed only the dark bruises scattered over his waist, over his hips, those florid swirls like distressed, blackened roses welted beneath his skin. Gothmog’s jaw clenched, cinders sparked and crackled from the tips of his horns as aghast he watched Mairon’s quivering fingers fumble with the laces of his breeches; a great gout of flame erupted uncontrollably down his back as his friend at last stripped, as he saw the awful, slickened mess of blood and creamy seed between his thighs. 

Mairon’s hands shook as he tried to cover himself, despairing tears welled up in his eyes as new waves of pain and degradation seemed to smash though him, and in utter dismay Gothmog stared at him; horror gouged through his throat and banished what shocked words had clotted there. Tethered to his silence then he tenderly took Mairon by the arm and steered him towards the large, circular bath sunk into the slate floor. He held his friend securely as he stepped shakily into those soothing mineral waters, until at last he rested comfortably within them, and Gothmog sat heavily down by the pool’s edge.

For a few minutes the silence flowed unbroken between them save for the gurgle of the bubbling waters and the slight hiss of steam. Silently, stiffly Mairon began to clean himself, but as he stroked over his hips a pained wince contorted his face, and at last Gothmog stirred.

He bit back the churning rage that glowered in his stomach, he watched as its repression cracked great fiery furrows through the dark skin of his arms, but as softly as he could manage he began, **“Mairon… are you all right?”**

A long pause curdled between them, until at last Mairon bowed his head, and that tiny, defeated movement was all of the admission that Gothmog needed.

 **“You cannot let him do this, Mairon,”** the Balrog said forcefully; the sentiment almost exploded from him in his furore. **“You _cannot_. This… this is…”**  

“I cannot make him stop.” The words crawled over Mairon’s lips like dying, broken things, they tasted like rust, and a growl of frustration rumbled out of the Balrog’s throat.

**“You are not a slave, Mairon! You are not some petty thing to be hurt, to be used… to be _forced_ upon his capricious impulse. You are our lieutenant, you are my _friend_ , my commander and – “**

“I don’t think there’s much difference…”

Sparks crackled and snapped in their sudden flurry upwards; they wreathed Gothmog in a halo of furious, incandescent light. **“There is a difference,”** he growled. **“There is an entire world of difference, and you must make him see it. You must see it for yourself.”**  

Mairon’s head dipped sadly, his silvery eyes drifted aside, and a pinkish stain billowed through the waters between his legs.

 **“You… you are so strong, Mairon,”** the Balrog continued; his hands clenched into shaking fists as he spoke. **“I have seen you call down the lightning from the skies, I have felt the earth quake and shudder with your fury, and yet from this you quail? You would hide yourself; you would submit yourself to _this_? You would just let this happen? _Why_?”  **  

Guilt spilled through Mairon’s stomach, he opened his mouth to answer but the words were hollow, ephemeral, he could not force them from his lips, and bound to his silence then he sat, the waters lapping morosely at his chest. And at his friend’s injury, fury crashed through Gothmog’s innards, the floor beneath him began to smoke, and fiercely, vehemently he growled, **“This has gone on long enough, and I have turned a blind eye to it, but no more.”**

He began to turn, he began to pivot himself around to rise, to stalk away crowned only in his rage, to rip down his lord’s doors if need be and do whatever futile thing he could to simply try to make this _stop_ , but before he could move more than an inch Mairon suddenly reached out, he grasped his friend about his fiery wrist. 

“Wait… Gothmog, please, wait…”

 **“Wait for what, Mairon?”** the Balrog spat, he ripped free of Mairon’s hold, and the cutting, reddened marks that he spied about his friend’s wrist and lower arm only spurred his abhorrence onwards. **“Wait for him just to decide upon a whim to stop? It will not happen. It will never happen unless you, unless I, unless the entirety of Utumno take up voice against it, and this we will do.”**  

A painful smile broke then over Gothmog’s lips, and more gently he continued. **“We care about you, Mairon. We all do and I - … I cannot bear to see you hurt.”**

“I’m sorry…” Shakily Mairon began to raise himself from the bath, Gothmog lunged forwards to help him as his fingers slipped upon the stones, and as together they raised him up Gothmog enveloped him into a large, warm towel and steered him towards his bedroom. Once there, gently Gothmog dried him, and preserving what of Mairon’s modesty that he could, he switched the towel for a soft night-robe, and with true sorrow in his eyes he helped his friend limp his way into bed. 

“I’m sorry…” The whisper crept again from Mairon’s lips as he sank beneath the folds of his bedcovers, and perched then upon the edge of the bed Gothmog stifled a great cry of rage.

 **“No!”** he said firmly, angrily; cinders swirled about his horns as fury righted itself once more through him, as it prickled in his very blood. **“No, don’t apologise. Don’t you _dare_ apologise, Mairon, not to me, do you hear? This is not your fault. It is _not_. These actions… these _atrocities_ …”**

From the vicious torrent of his own outrage Gothmog caught himself, he was so acutely aware of Mairon glancing fearfully at him, and with a colossal effort of will for a moment he mellowed. **“What has been done to you is a cruelty, nothing more,”** he sighed. **“It is not whatever warped pretences of affection that he claims it to be. This is not what love is, Mairon. This is not care, this is not kindness. To love is not to destroy; and perhaps in one such as our master it must be distinguished all the clearer. And for such… _ignoble_ deeds to come from one whom I call lord makes them all the more repugnant. But no longer. I cannot just sit here and watched you be abused, Mairon, I cannot do it, and you cannot ask it of me any more.”**

With that the Valarauka turned aside, and a hot clutch of panic tightened around Mairon’s heart.

“No, wait,” he pleaded, even to himself the words were pathetic, but still they poured from him. “Wait, Gothmog, don’t. Don’t get involved, please; please it’s not worth it… Please, it’s not that… it’s not that bad, Gothmog, it’s…” 

 ** _“It’s not that bad?”_** The Balrog’s face was incredulous, horrified. **“Can you even hear yourself? You can barely walk, he has hurt you so grievously, and you would pretend – “**  

“It’s not… I … It’s not always like this…” Desperate, helpless tears shone in Mairon’s eyes. He was still so young, Gothmog thought, and for all that he was strong and proud and noble with what cruel ease could he be undone. 

And slowly Gothmog shook his head, sadly he replied, **“You’re lying. To me, and even worse, you’re lying to yourself.”**  

The look in Mairon’s eyes nearly clove Gothmog’s chest in two.

“I know,” Mairon whispered, defeated tears trickled over his bruised cheeks, and with a great rush of protectiveness and care and sorrow Gothmog moved across the bed to hold him, to curl him into the vast warmth of his arms and there cradle him as if somehow he could shield him from the world, could shield him from what hurts had already been inflicted upon him. “I know,” Mairon whimpered into his chest, “I know, b-but… _but I don’t know what to do…_ ” 

Curled into his arms Mairon simply cried, and atop him Gothmog’s eyes came to a solemn close. For though so truly he wished to help, for all the grandeur and idealism of his words before, he knew that he could do so pitifully little to stand between his lord and his lieutenant, and for Mairon’s sake that frightened him. Though all Utumno might be rallied to stand in their lieutenant’s defence, what truly could they hope to prevent? Subject to such a fey lord in the glory of the world’s youth, they were all but admiring moths to his flame, fleeting and wraithlike while the flame burned unchecked. And in matters so delicate, so _personal_ , even their combined jurisdiction meant nothing.

So deeply Gothmog sighed, ruefully he lay there as Mairon’s sobs slowly quietened, and the blank helplessness of their situation sank in. But bound though they both were, there were still loops in the knots, and the Balrog’s mood lifted as he murmured, **“You should come with me for a while. I have been tasked with exploring some of the farthest reaches of the South, and I will be gone for months at the least. You should come with me. It will give you space, it will give our master’s tempers time to cool, and it would greatly please me to have your company.”**

Into the warm expanse of Gothmog’s chest Mairon nodded faintly, and Gothmog held him close as he fell down into the oblivion of exhausted, tearful sleep. At the very least it would be a reprieve, Gothmog thought as he made himself comfortable atop Mairon’s covers, it would keep his friend safe, even if only for a time. And of what might come to pass upon their return he could not say, and he hoped only that with the passing of time that things might change, that they might evolve into something less perilous. 

Yet he knew with the stubbornness that was innate to him, with every fiery ounce of his being, that come whatever might occur he would stand at Mairon’s side, and at the end of all things he would do right by his friend, even if the cost proved dear.      


	11. Little One

_A birthday fic for jardindesetoiles on Tumblr, with a slightly softer dynamic between Melkor and his lieutenant than I've explored much before. Very explicit NSFW, but no nasty warnings this time._

* * *

 

His master’s groan spirals up to the shadowed cloisters of the ceiling, and from where he kneels between his master’s parted legs, a hot little glede of pleasure pulses in his stomach.

Naked and coy he had crawled before his master sat so imperiously upon the edge of the bed; a profane litany of entreaties and smooth flirtations had glistened upon his lips until at last his master had grinned, had humoured him. Slowly, reverently, he had pulled free the lacings of his master’s breeches, he had licked his tongue up the underside of his master’s stiffened length; he had so teasingly traced the swollen veins that throbbed beneath his skin, whose engorgement begged for his attentions. Harder still he had coaxed him; he had pulled his master’s breeches free and a filthy smile had rolled over his lips as he leant forward once more, as he placed a tingling little kiss upon his master’s very tip, as he scratched his nails along his master’s inner thighs and felt the pleasurable clench of muscles there.

His breath comes hot and eager now as fully he envelops his master’s length, he parts his lips and takes his master down as deep as is comfortable, and bliss cramps through his stomach as he hears his master gasp above him. A measured rhythm he sets, teasing and yet passionate, and soon enough he feels his master’s fingers knot through his hair and grip him, guide him, and into that sordid, wondrous cadence he lets himself slide. 

Desire simmers within him as his throat begins to open, as his master’s hold gradually releases upon him. His cheeks hollow as he laves his tongue in lapping little caresses up his master’s length; his fingers dig into his master’s thighs as yet deeper down he takes him, and duskily then his master sighs. Down upon him his master looks, his eyes like crucibles of richest gold, and in a dulcet tone his master croons, “ _You are so beautiful, little one_.”

From where comes the sudden swell of emotion that moves him, or why now it chooses to surface, he could not say. But deeply it grips him, something claws up from his stomach and his rhythm upon his master’s length falters into stillness as that emotion seems to wither inside of him, some lonely little thing seems to twist, to shatter. Backwards upon his knees he rocks, his master’s taste lingers upon his tongue as he withdraws; his hands slip from his master’s thighs as he sinks down atop his heels, and from his master then he turns his face. 

And he doesn’t want to ask the question that suddenly blazes in his heart, he doesn’t want to ask it for the terror of the answer, for the gutting truth that it might let spill, but as his master gazes questioningly at him, the words are dragged from his lips.

“Why do you call me that, my lord?”

It is so plaintive that it sickens him; his murmur seems to coil like a wounded beast upon the air as he waits for the scornful rebuke that is sure to come. But with unexpected tenderness his master regards him, and in a mellow voice he asks, “ _Call you what?”_

“Little one…” he breathes; the syllables taste warped and strange, like a sacrilege upon his tongue, and as he looks forlornly to the marble between his knees he can only hope that his master might even _begin_ to understand why it matters to him. “W-why…?”

“ _Come here_.”

His gaze lifts as his master outstretches a hand to him, and nervously he takes it. He allows his master to raise him up to his feet, to pull him forwards, and numbly at first he stands as his master holds him, as one ashen hand runs up to brush the dishevelled strands of hair from his cheeks. Into that delicate touch he presses himself, his eyes for a moment close, before his master draws him forward once more. 

Down across his master’s lap he straddles himself, his thighs spread about his master’s waist, but unsurely still he bows his head: he cannot quite bring himself to look his master in the eye for fear of what awful emotion he might find there. 

“ _Little one_ …” his master ponders, and a dream-like smile coils over his lips. Yet flirtatiously then his master tilts his chin and to him gently murmurs, “ _Do you think it ill-befitting?”_

“No, my lord,” he breathes, husky and low, and he squirms as his master flexes his hips beneath him. “I didn’t… I didn’t mean it like that…” 

His words are lost into a moan as his master presses forward, as he plants a deep kiss upon his lips, and into that passionate touch for a moment he loses himself.

“ _I think it fair_ ,” his master murmurs, with each pause he presses a sweet, ardent kiss upon his lips. “ _Do you not? You are so strong, Mairon, so loyal…”_  

He shivers as his master’s fingers ghost up his sides, as his thumbs brush over his nipples and the slender barbells that adorn them, that were soldered into his skin by his master’s will. Such tender little marks of his master’s affection ever he wears, and how he gasps as such sensitive flesh is stirred quickly to excitement. 

“ _You would give all of yourself to me,”_ his master purrs; a stinging constellation of kisses his master trails down his neck, down his chest, and he moans as each one blisters into his skin. “ _And with a name you would not let me give you my love in return?”_  

“Your l-love?” he breathes, but oh how that breath is snatched from his lungs as his master smiles up at him, as he rolls his tongue over his right nipple, and the groan that rips then from his throat could have brought Angband toppling down around him in its scandal. Subtly he rocks himself forward, he presses his aching length up against his master’s own; he grinds his hips forward as his master’s teeth close gently over his nipple, as he flicks the barbell with his tongue, and into that tangle of sensations he simply whimpers out his lust.

His master’s hands slip to his waist, over tensed muscles they slide until firmly then his master grips him, shifts him, and with a languid moment of torsion, face down upon the bed he is manoeuvred. Hot, biting little kisses his master trails down the scarred skin of his back; he buries his flaming cheeks into the pillows as if somehow that would stifle the groan that seeps from him as his master toys with him. His hips roll into the bedclothes as his master kisses the very base of his spine; fruitlessly he thrusts against the sheets as his master straightens, as fingers slide so temptingly down the curve of his arse. 

He whimpers as his master grasps him in earnest, as his master parts his thighs, and whether that forlorn little noise is made in lust or in some confused, lingering shred of sorrow, truly he is unsure. For purposefully now his master spreads him, the slide of fabric and the shift of weight he feels behind him; he braces himself for the rough, wrenching violation that is sure to come, and into the pillow he buries his face to hide the sudden tears that prickle behind his eyes.  

But it is with tenderness that his master breaches him; with his length well slickened by some hidden vial of oil his master opens him, takes him. His hands curl into trembling fists about the sheets as his master pushes gently into him; his cheeks flush anew as both pain and pleasure ripple up through him, and he groans with the perverse harmony of them. Finally his master fills him, and such sublime pressure throbs through him then that he is not sure whether to tear himself from it or to simply impale himself further. Yet languidly his master withdraws from him, only to push back in just a little bit harder, a little bit more viciously, and how he moans as those sensations only build within him, debase him, set him aflame. 

Into his master’s languorous thrusts he rolls his hips, desperately he throws himself into that rhythm as such pounding need grips him. Every push of flesh into carnal flesh grinds his chest, his nipples, his aching, drooling length across the sheets with their force, and how he moans as those sensations collide within him. Tenderly, passionately, his master fucks him, and soon enough he whimpers with each deep thrust inside of him; every muscle in him tightens in pleasure as his master nudges up against that ecstatic spot inside of him, as that little bundle of nerves shrieks out its ardour. Yet no faster will his master take him, no more strongly; with agonising indolence his master presses into him and watches him writhe, watches him splay himself in his need. 

“Please, my lord,” he moans at last; he breathes it all husky and broken into the pillows as those slow, driving sensations within him only stoke to their crest, as they become suddenly all too much. “P-please, please… oh, oh fuck, _fuck_ … please, my lord. Please, _please_ can I – “  

“ _Come for me, little one_ ,” his master murmurs; with one hard thrust his master sheathes his length fully inside of him, and how that awful, delicious pressure sends him reeling. He shudders as his climax grips him; he keens out its ecstasy as desperately, helplessly he rocks himself against his master, he bucks his hips upon his master’s length and he near mewls with the glory of it.

Finally those blistering sensations slip from him, they leave him sweaty and spent and panting into the pillows, yet where then he expects his master to move, to withdraw from him, such dark surprise ripples through the hazy muddle of his thoughts as carefully his master turns them both. With his master’s length still pressed firmly up inside of him his master settles them upon their sides, and atop them both he pulls a thick wolf-pelt coverlet before cradling him back into his chest. 

Dull waves of pain throb between his legs; the slick, unforgiving fullness of his master’s length aches within him, but so protectively his master’s arm comes to curl about him, so snugly his master holds him into the curvature of his body that he shivers with the joy of it. 

“M-my lord…?” 

“ _You are so beautiful, little one_ ,” his master murmurs, he nuzzles the words into the side of his neck; and how he quivers as the hot billow of his master’s breath flushes over him. “ _Let me savour you a little while longer_.”      

A low moan of happiness echoes out of his throat as his master’s fingers twine through his own; pulled there, held there so intimately, so perfectly against his master’s bulk, it all for once feels so right, so soft and so exquisitely tender. Though still his master’s length up inside of him hurts, its sharpness numbs away into something pleasurable, something warm and safe and possessive and adoring, and into such gentle, visceral pleasures he simply lets himself melt.  

Clutching to his master’s hand then the exhausted veils of sleep draw over him, and into the bliss that aches between his legs, back into his master’s warmth he presses himself. Slowly his eyes drift to a close, and should the stars themselves have come tumbling down from the heavens then, they would not have moved him from his serenity.


	12. Sore in Pride and Body

_A nice little bit of Angbang, for old times' sake! tw: dubcon_

 

* * *

 

 

“ _I have a gift for you, Mairon.”_

His master’s voice rolls throughout the emptied expanse of Angband’s great hall, and from where he kneels before the throne, tentatively he looks upwards.

With such predatory indolence his master had stripped him, had bade him kneel; fey and lordly was his master now draped across the throne, and a gluttonous light simmers in his master’s auric eyes. The cool air of the hall laps at his skin, his master’s gaze seems to scour through his veins, and a fizz of taut adrenaline races through his heart as he glimpses something half-concealed within his master’s hand. 

It takes every ounce of self-control that he possesses to remain motionless as his master arises, as his master stalks a tight, spiralling circle about him. A pointed nail runs over his cheekbone and beneath it he grits his teeth, his master’s fingers pluck at the blond spill of his hair yet defiantly he raises his chin. A lascivious, knowing curl hints about his master’s lips yet he forces himself to remain motionless, he will not rise to so easy a bait, and though thwarted pride hums in his veins, hard he swallows it down. He endures his master’s taunts: the slow, mocking play of fingers across him, until at last his master steps to a fluid halt before him.

The breath catches in his throat as his master takes him by the chin; he can only hope that his master cannot feel the nervous clench of his jaw, yet such naïve faith is dashed to the marble beneath him as a smirk rolls over his master’s lips. Yet where he expects some cutting rebuke, some humiliating slap, his master remains coyly silent, and after a sickly moment of anticipation sinks to kneel before him. 

Silver flashes within his master’s palm; the questions that cluster upon his lips are scattered as with his right hand his master ghosts his fingers up over his ribcage, over his chest; his master’s thumb brushes over his nipple and such tender flesh is soon coaxed to engorged attention. Light moils upon the metal barbell that pierces through his nipple; his master twists it, hard, and desperately he gulps back the moan that threatens to bolt from his throat. Quickly then his master reaches for him, and to that throbbing piercing clips a small object; a delicate orb of silver that tugs lightly upon the barbell, and a thrill of mingled horror and arousal washes through him as he realises what it is.

For even as his master laves his tongue over his left nipple, the little bell upon his right tinkles; it chimes its merriment out into the hall, and a dark flush of humiliation storms through him as its partner is clipped to him. But how deeply then his master kisses him; richly, elegantly, yet even with that simple motion the bells tinkle, and as his master relinquishes him, powerless he is to stop the blush that mottles over his cheeks.

“ _What magnificent adornments, little one,”_ his master purrs, and some sordid swell of delight runs through him at the note of admiration in his master’s voice. “ _Show me how you like them.”_

Trepidation curdles in his veins; the sheer _ignominy_ of it turns his stomach, and suddenly his master’s gaze upon him is more than he can bear. His eyes flicker to the marble between his knees, but as expectation curdles upon the air at last he opens his mouth. The words cling to his lips but still he pushes them forth. “My lord, I – “ 

The low murmur of his speech is severed as his master grasps him anew; two fingers rest upon his lips and he can but quiver beneath them. 

“ _Not like that.”_

A livid shade of vermilion flushes over his cheeks as he senses his master smirk, as he senses what his master wants; perverse desire unfurls within him and though every shred of pride in him rails against it, at last he twists slightly, he shakes his bells for his master.

“ _Very good.”_ A beseeching little whimper echoes out of his throat as his master withdraws his fingers. “ _Such a good boy, such a clever boy… And clever boys should be rewarded, should they not?”_

A wordless whine of frustration hums in his throat, his master’s gaze down upon him is pitiless, and below it finally he crumbles; desire scratches through his veins and once more he sets those awful, humiliating bells ringing out their ardour.

_“Always so eager to please…”_

Shame cramps through his innards but he nudges his flaming cheeks into his master’s fingers as he feels himself begin to stiffen, his hands clench into shaking fists atop his thighs as the debasement of it consumes him, suffuses him, _elates_ him…

 _“Touch yourself, little one.”_ His master’s command plays as a vile spur dug into his ribs, and though humiliation shudders through him afresh he takes himself in hand, his fingers slide their teasing, knowing way up his hardening length as his master turns to settle upon the throne. He closes his eyes as more firmly he strokes himself, and as the minutes roll by those pleasurable sensations ripple through him, as nothing but heat and throbbing, yearning ardour slowly stoke between his legs.   

Something clatters to the marble before his knees, the bells trill wildly as instinctively he starts, as his eyes open and he glimpses the vial of oil left spinning before him.

_“Open yourself.”_

His master’s words sicken him; craving and abhorrence smash together and within him wage their war, and upon his knees he hesitates. Yet ardently his master’s will presses upon him, unyielding in its intent and greedy in its pleasure, and beneath it he feels himself erode. A miserable quirk plucks at his lips as with shaking hands he unstops the vial, and though he trembles with the debasement of it he slicks his fingers in oil; the bells chime out his horror as he twists, as dreadfully, _obscenely_ he closes his eyes and spreads himself apart. And he can almost feel his master’s grin as his knees slip wider apart, as tenderly he breaches himself, and for what feels like a slow eternity his master simply watches him toy with himself. 

Oil streaks down his inner thighs, it drips into humiliating little splatters beneath him, and how gladly then he lurches to his feet as at last his master bids him rise. Gingerly he steps towards the throne, he can scarcely bear to look at his master as he feels droplets of slick liquid trickle down his legs, and as he draws to the juncture between his master’s parted thighs, the breath clots in his lungs as his master turns him about. The cavernous hall leers down upon him; he looks to the shadows lurking between its pillars and in them finds only malice, only mockery; and as he hears the shift of fabric behind him he braces himself for what awful, wrenching violation is sure to come.

Yet it is with tenderness that his master guides him backwards, and a filthy groan rolls from his lips as he sinks slowly down atop his master’s erect length. His master’s fingers press with bruising force into his hips; hot breath flushes over his back, over his neck; that invading sense of heat, of pressure, of closeness, of fullness at once becomes all too much, and he whimpers with the ache of it as his master grinds him remorselessly down.

The bells quiver upon his nipples, desperately he shifts his hips as those sensations become truly hurting, and a crimson flush prickles even over his chest as at his ear his master purrs, “ _Spread your legs, little one.”_

The emptiness of the hall is but an injury as tenderly he spreads his thighs, his hands grip into his master’s waist behind him for some semblance of control as so crudely he splays himself; and a poorly stifled cry of both pleasure and torment echoes about the hall as his master’s fingers wander over newly exposed skin.

“ _Wider.”_

Ashen fingers dig into his inner thighs, and beseechingly he whines as his master levers him further apart, rocking him backwards for an instant to hook his legs about the outsides of his master’s thighs. The bells toll cheekily as he writhes, his thighs flex uselessly about his master’s legs but he cannot close them. His fingers dig reddened little furrows into his master’s waist, but they betray only his helplessness as his master shifts beneath him, inside of him, and the groan that pours then from his lips could have brought the hall toppling down around him in its shame.

Teasingly then his master reaches about his waist; sharp nails slice into his inner thighs, they ghost and scratch and prickle their way across such sensitive skin and leave him squirming. A plaintive series of whimpers rip from him as slowly, sadistically his master pinches him; a constellation of florid, bruising little welts his master kisses into his flesh, and how shamefully then he jumps with each fresh touch upon him. For with every hurt he clenches about his master’s length sheathed up inside of him, each buck of his hips nudges up against something exquisite inside of him, and dark, feral lust cramps though his stomach with each new, agonising touch. 

For how long his master holds him there, makes him twitch, makes him whimper, makes those awful little bells ring out his humiliation he does not know; everything dissolves into the glow of heat upon his tortured thighs, into the wet, lapping kisses that his master bites across his shoulders, into the helpless flex of muscles and dreadful lusts left to simmer. And he near keens out his need as his master’s right hand cups his own, his master’s fingers twine through his and guide his hand to his yearning, drooling length, and slowly set there a rhythm. With such decadent pleasure his master forces him to stroke himself; wetness spills from his slit and he arches himself back into his master’s chest as his fingers glide through it, as those sensations only crest within him. 

But swiftly then his master’s left hand comes about, fingers close about his throat and hold him there; they force his gaze to the empty marble before him. 

“ _Look there, little one,”_ his master purrs; and though glazed with lust his eyes open. The floor blurs with each rock of his hips, each languid shift of his master up inside of him, but still he looks, and the obscenity of his master’s words wash over him like some viscous, lulling nightmare. “ _Look over my hall, my walls, my floor, and dream of those would stand there now, who would witness you here, all naked and whimpering before them. How many of them would line up to taste you, to take you, I wonder? To pin you down upon the floor; hold you there, and part your thighs, and enter you; make you moan for them, beg for them, and leave you there all sticky and gasping and simply sobbing for the next… For so they would find you, would they not, little one? So warm, and open, and so desperately_ wanting _…”_

Every grind of his master’s hips sends waves of such exquisite pressure throbbing through him, each forcible stroke of his palm up his length is so devastatingly alluring, and under their combined onslaught he can only moan, he can only gasp as suddenly his master forgoes his throat. 

 _“How many of them would thank you for the privilege?”_ His master’s voice is but a golden murmur in his ears; a groan of ardour ripples out of his throat as his master toys with the bell upon his left nipple, and how greedily then his master smiles. 

“ _Would you like that, little one_?” 

Scalding waves of both pleasure and shame course up through him and in their grip he trembles. The flush of his master’s breath upon his neck is so devastatingly tender; each caress of his skin is so kind, so _possessive_ as more keenly his master purrs, “ _Well?”_  

“N-no, my lord…” he bleats; a breathy gasp punches in over his lips as his master tightens his grip upon his hand, upon his length, and a bright clutch of arousal knots in the base of his stomach. 

 _“You live for your lies but they do not become you.”_ And shame storms through him anew as flagrantly he rolls his hips into each building stroke of his length; the bells tinkle out their scandalous tune and each light tug upon his nipples only sets him aflame. Every touch upon him, inside of him seems to ache, to debase him, ignite him; he scarcely knows what words pour over his lips, he only knows that they are true as he pants them forth. 

“I… I don’t lie, my lord. Not to you. _Not to you…”_  

 _“Then you would deny yourself such pleasures?”_ His back arcs as his master’s tongue scrapes up the side of his neck; a sly roil of his hips sends him reeling. _“Why?”_  

And in that moment the world seems to stop turning; every muscle in him freezes in such excruciating ecstasy, and he doesn’t want to say it, he can’t ever say it, the words beat with every pulse of his desire cannot bring them forth, he does not want to give them voice for the terror of the answer. But as his master’s power crackles over his skin, as the delicious pressure inside of him and the pass of his hand over too-sensitive flesh becomes all too much; as the hurting spasms of a climax grip him and send those bells trilling out his delight, into it he whimpers his answer.

“Because it would not be you, my lord.”

The fullness of his master’s length buried inside of him sends him spiralling ever higher; he spurts his seed to the cold marble below him, and how deliciously his master nips at his ear as he shudders in his pleasure; as raw, seething waves of both delight and horror flood through him.

“It…” he chokes; despairing tears gloss over his eyes but still he speaks as his master kneads his fingers into his bruised thighs, “it would not be you…”

How indulgently then his master smiles; a throaty whisper licks at his ears but he cannot hear it, he can scarcely feel but for the warm ache between his legs, for the injury of his master’s hands upon him, and into those awful, wonderful sensations he simply falls apart. For though so tenderly accepted, those words only crown him in their shame, barbed and accusing, and under the weight of their admission he can only pray that his master might understand why they mean so much to him, he can only hope that his master might bring himself to care. 

Silent tears trickle down his cheeks as his master’s grip upon him tightens, as his master grinds into sore, used flesh, and even as his whimpers bleed out into the empty hall as luxuriously now his master fucks him, it is his words that haunt him the more. For in those tender, hurting minutes that come, over and over they twist in his mind; it would not be you, it would not be you, _it would not be you_. 

They define him, and they destroy him.     


	13. I Am Become Death

_A slightly softer Angbang piece in tone, but quite sombre in mood. tw: discussions of barrenness / sterility._

 

* * *

 

The hour draws late; the moon rides high above the towering peaks of the Thangorodrim, and its pallid light spills through the grand windows that illumine his master’s chambers. For long hours he has laboured at his master’s side: together they had leaned across a great map of Beleriand splayed out across a table and held conference upon the movements of their enemies. The bottleneck at the Sirion ever proved troublesome; the mountains that hemmed it close were impassable in force of numbers, and to review their stock of maps of the region his master had tasked him then.

Perhaps a forgotten path might be unearthed, or some geological weakness shown to be exploitable, and readily he had assented to his master’s command. He had withdrawn himself to sit comfortably cross-legged by the fireplace, and bathed in its flickering warmth he had unfurled the maps before him and set about descrying them. Hours had turned placidly; and now and again he sips from the goblet of spiced wine by his knee as he squints over a faded etching of the Ered Wethrin’s southernmost tail.

Across the room his master pores still over the grand map spread across the table, and as he glances over the maps of his own a question drifts suddenly to his lips. Swiftly though he bites it back: it is stupid, it is crass, perhaps, and it is utterly irrelevant to the situation at hand, but as the minutes wear on the thought of it haunts him. He shouldn’t care about it, he tells himself roughly, it doesn’t even _matter_ , but as those assertions toss and churn within him, hurt simmers in his stomach, and at last he can restrain himself no longer.

“My lord,” he says softly; his eyes drift away to the crackling fireplace as he feels his master’s gaze lift to him. “Have you ever given thought to… to the siring of children?” 

_“Children?”_ The slight note of alarm in his master’s rich tone sends his heart lurching, and before the fire his head bows as his master continues, _“Wherefrom comes such a question, Mairon? What would I want with such things?_ _Tending to the needs of this fortress and the rapacious demands of its citizens is labour enough, for they squall and chatter and bemoan even as children do. No, I do not give much credence to these matters.”_

Numbly then he sits; the derision in his master’s tone dredges up only misery within him, and grateful he is that the turn of his shoulders and the sweep of his hair veil his face from view. A few uncertain moments slip by then; it doesn’t matter, he tells himself savagely, it is near unseemly to discuss and likely his master would not even care, but as the silence stretches on between them at last he hears his master shift. 

_“Though,”_ his master says ponderously, _“I see now that they press upon your mind…”_

Muted and sincerely questioning is his master’s tone, and at it he falters; he does not dare turn around to witness whatever expression might be caught across his master’s features. And how weak he thinks it as that nameless hurt inside of him seems to seep into his very bones, it lulls him to stillness, and mournfully he stares into the flames before him.

“I dined with Gothmog not a week past,” he murmurs; he is not even sure that he wants to speak the words aloud, but still they limp over his lips. “And he spoke of such things. He and Nazcarnië have become close in companionship, and idly he spoke of such possibilities, of having a family, of between them creating a new life of their own. Eagerly then I listened to him, and I am happy for him, truly, but…”

His master’s gaze settles as a tangible weight upon him, and though he shivers beneath it still the words come. “But then a thought came to my mind. Or… or not a thought, a realisation more it was. For I have lain with women: in Aulë’s halls I took partners amongst Maiar who clad themselves in female _fána_ , and in the long years of my lord’s absence I found pleasure in others besides. But with them I was not… I was not _careful_ ; such things seemed of little concern, but upon these couplings now I look back. For none ever sprung to fruition, never once did any partner claim pregnancy by our deeds, not _one_ among them, and… and I simply wondered…”

A shuddering breath scrapes through his lungs; his master’s gaze upon his back is suddenly all too much to bear, and slowly then he turns about. And how that hurt cramps all the tighter through his innards as he looks upon his master’s face, as he sees the genuine concern written in his eyes.

“I went to the healers,” he murmurs; the words sound hoarse and stilted in his ears, and he cannot bear to hold his master’s gaze as his words cloud like a pall of shame about him. “I went to Yrael, for there is no thaumaturge greater amongst our people in the matters of the body, nor in fleshcraft. I spoke to her of these things, and she consulted her bones, she drew her runes in ash and blood upon me and she wove her spell into me, to… to look inside of me. And she turned to me then, and her eyes were strange, and she said… She said that I was… that I – I am barren, I am s-sterile...” 

And with that evil admittance beneath his master’s gaze he crumbles. Tears prickle behind his eyes, a hissing breath scours down his throat as horror claws through his chest, and he doesn’t even know why it hurts so much to say it aloud, to admit this truth at once so vile and so personal, he knows only that it guts him, and hard he blinks back tears as he gulps, “S-something inside of me, it’s… it’s wrong, she said. It… it doesn’t work properly, it doesn’t…” 

A rattling breath hitches through his lungs, and desperately he tries to cling to coherency as the words jerk from him. “Something in me is… is _broken_ , and…”

_“Oh, little one…”_ His master’s voice is but a golden purr in his ears, but so swiftly then his master is by his side, his master draws him up, and a desperate sob erupts through him as his master envelops him into his embrace. Tenderly his master holds him, protectively, fiercely; distress blazes in his heart and in that vulnerable moment he simply buries his face into his master’s chest. 

“I cannot… I cannot make life…” he chokes; and hot, shameful tears trickle down his cheeks as his master’s grip upon him only tightens. For despite the sorrow that drenches him something darker still bubbles beneath it, something devouring, something _awful_ , and he clings to his master’s tunic as it comes crawling over his lips. 

“It’s my fault,” he whimpers. “It’s my _punishment_. Because… because I rebelled, I didn’t – I didn’t do what I was supposed to, I took something away from them and so they stole something from me so… so I can’t _infect_ them…”

And so close about him he feels his master bridle, a pulse of such unutterable fury tremors through the air, and despair rocks through him anew.

Terrible is the look in his master’s eyes as their embrace softens, but gently his master raises his face, and to him then murmurs, _“This is not true, Mairon. This is no punishment tipped upon you; I know it in my heart. If such things are hold sway then they are an unkindness beyond measure, but they do not define you. They do not make you who you are.”_

Softly his master strokes the hair from his flushed cheeks, deeply he looks into his eyes and such sincerity blazes from his master then that it shakes him to hear it.

“ _For I have seen you breathe life into legends. You sew your power into metal and it prostrates itself before you, you touch the rusted cogs of a mechanism long abandoned and they purr for you as if they were forged but yesterday. Think upon that beast you made; the little clockwork thing, think upon how it adored you. For I saw you all those millennia ago, I saw you find that mouse within the field, its legs mangled and its heart racing in its pain, and I saw you cradle it within your hands, and I watched as you laboured to save it. It was you who stitched it back together, with magic you bade it breathe, and with metal you taught it to walk again. Life hums at your fingertips, little one, not sickness, not decay. Not infection.”_

Hard he swallows as his master’s words wash through him; it is not the same, he thinks, _it is not the same,_ and from the faint glimmer of doubt that shines in his master’s eyes, he knows that his master knows it too.

And it nearly tears him apart to ask the question that bubbles up in his chest; he does not want to ask it for the terror of the answer, but softly his head bows, and he whispers, “Can you fix me, my lord?”

“ _I do not know.”_ His master’s voice is grave, sorrowful, and hurt crushes through him to hear it. “ _These matters run deep, little one. Deeper perhaps than I have influence…”_

“Will you try?” The quavering note of hysteria in his voice sickens him; it only drowns him anew in his shame. _“Please?_ I don’t… I don’t want to be like this, please. Please, my lord… I can’t… _”_

_“Hush, little one,”_ his master croons; he envelops him back into his embrace, and hard he squeezes his eyes shut as his master presses a tender kiss to his forehead. “ _Calm yourself, now. For this is an evil that none should have to endure, and none so sweet as you, but I would see it distress you no more.”_

A wobbly breath flits through his lungs as his master raises his chin; he musters himself to stand tall and proud and undaunted once more, and both rueful and sincere is his master’s tone as at last he says, _“But you must understand me, Mairon; I do not know if this thing might be undone by my power. For it is a circumstance not of my making; the notes that you sung all those millennia ago have chorded you thusly, and their echoes resonate still with a power beyond my ken. But upon mine heart I swear to you this: if it might ease your grief by my efforts, then I will try to lift this from you.”_

Shakily he nods; and how desperately he wishes to just dissolve into his master’s touch as a gentle, reassuring kiss is pressed to his lips.

_“And if I should fail,”_ his master whispers, _“then we might hold the world to ransom, for none so fair as you are deserving of such a cruelty.”_


	14. The Whip and the Wire

_Some hefty topic warnings here for dub-con, whipping, blood, and barbed wire used in a creative and painful manner. Enjoy your Angbang :3_

 

* * *

 

The sight of the riding crop resting across the pillows sends dread spilling through his innards, but the look in his master’s eyes frightens him all the more.

Coldly his master had received him, had commanded him to strip; that elegant, horrible crop had haunted his gaze as formal robes were shed, and naked now he kneels atop the plush ebony coverlets of his master’s bed. Rigidly he holds himself as his master binds his wrists with a tight length of cord, his hands clench into nervous fists at the small of his back, but the malevolence that glowers about the room brokers no argument to such actions. He simply forces himself to breathe as his master looks disdainfully down upon him.  

_“Your insubordinations grow tiresome, Mairon,”_ his master says; malice simmers in those golden, fathomless eyes and true worry clenches in his stomach as silkily his master continues, “ _Ever you push the bounds of my lenience, and you have pushed too far. It is about time such failings in your deportment are addressed.”_

He tries so hard not to cry out as his master reaches for the crop, desperately he grits his teeth together to swallow the protest that wells up in his throat. Whining dissent would not aid him here, this he knows, and painted only in his guilt he waits for his master’s judgement to fall upon him. Yet even as such hateful anticipation crawls over his skin something darker rolls in his belly, something far more visceral; the whip balances so gracefully in his master’s fingers, smooth and black and  _hungry_ , and he can do nothing but endure the unwanted curl of arousal that flushes through him.

“ _Is it your place to question my commands once explicitly given?”_

His master’s voice is soft, cunning; such delectable cruelty plays in his smirk as he twirls the crop through his fingers.

“No, my lord,” he answers, shame prickles through him as his master trails the thin leather thong of the whip across his chest; shame for both his previous misdeeds and the sordid arousal that pulses through the base of his stomach.

“ _Is it your place to protest, to mewl out your pathetic opinions once unsolicited?”_

“No, my lord,” he breathes; hard he fights to keep his voice steady as the crop brushes first over one nipple, and then the other. And he cannot bear to watch as those little buds of flesh are coaxed to such wanton engorgement, he does not dare look his master in the eyes as the whip slides down over his stomach, as muscles clench and flex in its wake; his master laves it over his hips, his thighs, his groin, and it illumines only that which he wishes to hide.

“ _Is it your place to twist my words to your selfish little desires?”_

“N-no, my lord,” he gasps; the breath rocks over his lips as the whip is drawn so tantalisingly up his stiffening length, upon his knees he sways as that ghostly sensation swells in him, but the wrath that burns then in his master’s eyes draws him to a brittle halt.

_“Then what is your place, Mairon?”_  his master murmurs; nausea rolls through his stomach as his master taps the whip against the engorged crown of his length, and how that sensation only sets him aflame.

“To… to obey you, my lord,” he whimpers at last, relief and sick, yearning frustration cramp in his stomach as the whip flickers away from his groin, but the light in his master’s eyes then was terrible to behold.

_“And will you obey me now?”_

Shivers prickle across his skin at the threat in his master’s tone, the thong of the whip trails lazily across his lips and so keenly then he knows what it is that his master wants. Such brazen disgust simmers in his heart; it is crass, it is  _humiliating_ , but as the crop nudges against him more strongly then slowly, he parts his lips for his master. The leather thong slips over his tongue and reluctantly, tentatively he licks at it.

_“Not good enough, little one.”_

Menace thrums in his master’s voice, debased arousal clenches in his innards and sensually then he licks at the whip as his master pushes it deeper past his lips; he cradles it, he worships it with his tongue as if it was made holy, and a crimson flush mottles over his cheeks as he hears his master purr,  _“Good boy. Get it nice and wet now.”_

Mortifying little strands of drool loop from the whip’s thong as at last his master withdraws it, they drip so humiliatingly down his chest, but sweetly then his master smiles at him, one hand strokes him so possessively across the cheekbone as he purrs,  _“Much better, now. Shall we try something else?”_

And his heartbeat comes all sick and lusting in his throat as his master withdraws from him, stalks behind him; such delirious adrenaline fizzes through his veins as his master murmurs,  _“Spread your legs, little one.”_

Reluctance and fervour pound through his blood as he forces his thighs to part, he slides his knees further apart and oh how deliciously he shivers as tender flesh is laid bare. And such awful anticipation thrills in his blood as he hears his master ready himself, his wrists flex helplessly in his bonds as he braces for the pain, the shame that is sure to come, but as his master cracks the whip across the back of his thighs he comes far too late to stifle the yelp that claws up his throat.

The kiss of wet leather sears across his flesh, it leaves a livid welt speckled across his skin, and he scarcely has time to draw new breath into his lungs before his master swipes a twinned blow across his right thigh. And how he grunts as the thong of the whip slices through sensitive skin, his hips arc as pain erupts through him, as his master flicks a series of calculated, cutting little blows across his legs and desperately he tries to quell his pleas of anguish as his master murmurs,  _“Quietly now.”_

How hard it is to hold his silence as his master layers strike after stinging, aching strike upon him; livid marks blossom over his thighs, over his arse as with such vicious caprice his master tears him apart. Roughly then his master pushes him down, his face crushes into the silken bedspread as his master forces his back to arch, his hips to rise, and so crudely, so awfully he splays himself wide for his master. And oh how he writhes in his agony as the whip crackles anew over bruised, aching flesh; reddened weals swell over such tender skin and as time wears on his silence becomes only another injury blistered into him.

A keening whine flickers out of his throat as each slice of the whip upon him only stokes that agony, it sets such dreadful arousal to simmer still in his stomach; heat glows from his thighs as each horrific impact sends him rocking forwards into the covers now dampened with his sweat. A squeal tumbles from his throat as his master cracks him hard across the arse, a guttural, half-worded moan follows in its wake as his master drags the whip across that flushing welt, but as his master pauses then dread spills through his heart.

_“You lack discipline,”_  his master breathes; the whip sizzles through the air and powerless he is to stop his cry as it slashes down across the aching, reddened flesh of his innermost thigh. Yet he has barely gasped in one shuddering breath when suddenly his master lunges forward, greyed fingers knot through his hair and wrench him upwards to his knees.

“ _If you are incapable of remaining quiet, little one, then we shall have quiet enforced.”_

Helplessly he bucks in his master’s grip; no, he pleads, no no no no no, despite the pain that pounds through him he writhes and squirms as his master reaches for something concealed within his robes, but as a length of thin, barbed wire falls across his face then terror draws him to quietude.

“No,” he begs, “no,  _please_ …” but how such protests are cruelly severed as his master forces a bare segment of wire past his lips. More carefully then his master slides it sideways; a thick, clumped barb drags at the tender skin of his lips and frantically he fights against it, but as its spears carve bloodied furrows into him then at last he relents. A miserable sob hitches in his chest as remorselessly his master gags him; the snarl of a barb stabs into his tongue with its every tiny movement, its brethren snare like cutting little stars across his cheeks, through his hair as fully about him his master loops the wire. Another twist of bladed, thorned metal forces bloody and raw into his mouth and it takes every ounce of failing willpower in him not to cry out, not to mutilate himself further as his master solders the wire shut with a quick flash of puissance.

_“Perhaps this might encourage you to think upon the wisdom of your actions.”_

Contemptuously then his master unhands him, leaves him shivering there upon his knees, and only a delicate keen of misery emanates from his throat as he sees his master pick up the crop once more. And how he shudders as his master slides it against his bloodied, opened lips; a spasm of pain jolts through his body as suddenly his master snaps it downwards, as it flicks out across his nipple. Crimson saliva bubbles upon his lips as reflexive motion jams his tongue into the wire barbs; a desolate whimper sounds low in his chest, but how delectable then is his master’s smile.

_“Did you like that, little one?”_

A taut second passes, again his master slashes the whip down across his right nipple and desperately he bucks as pain and such perverse pleasure crash together within him; savage, yearning lust floods through his stomach and his master’s eyes upon his engorged length twitching between his legs only drenches him in his shame.

“ _Do you like my whip upon you, little one?”_ his master croons; the leather thongs skates down his chest, over the quivering muscles of his stomach. “ _Do you like it when I hurt you?”_

No, he wants to scream,  _no_ ; the barbs scratch over his tongue as frantically, beseechingly he shakes his head, because he doesn’t like this, he doesn’t want this,  _he doesn’t_ , he tries so hard to convince himself of that fact even as his body betrays him.

_“Oh,”_  his master sighs, a terrible light glitters in his master’s eyes as he draws the whip up his stiffened length, as he smears it through the wetness that drools from his tip.  _“I think that you do. You play your masochistic little games and how they drench you in your sin…”_

Harder still the whip presses into him, and desperately he groans as with such cruel delight his master traces it over his length; up the turgid, throbbing veins that ridge him, about the too-sensitive rim of his crown. Yet slowly such pleasurable groans lower to guttural, simpering little noises of distress as roughly his master draws the whip against him, as without care for comfort his master frots him against it, and metal tastes upon his tongue as his master growls,  _“But this is not about your enjoyment.”_

Violently then his master topples him forwards, the gag cuts deep into his lips and tongue as his face crushes down into the bedspread, and a strangled sob bubbles through his chest as his master slices the whip down over his arse. Hard his master’s fingers dig into his pelvis, they force him to raise his hips once more, and piteously he whimpers as angry, bruised flesh is assaulted afresh. Dark, despairing tears slip down his cheeks as at last his master pauses, a ragged moan of both pain and such debased lust is muffled into the sheets as slowly his master bends, as a hot, lapping line of bites is laved up his trembling thigh.

_“How sweet you taste, little one,”_  his master breathes, and at the seduction in his master’s tone something wrenches in his stomach; desperately he grinds himself backwards, bruises cloud across his skin but helplessly, deliriously he presses himself into his master’s touch. But how such eagerness sees him undone for abruptly his master withdraws, strong hands press his thighs together and with a burst of puissance bind him; for a moment his master simply admires him there with raised hips and closed, ruined legs, and blood slowly soaking into the sheets below his face.

Against those bonds still he squirms as he feels his master shift behind him, and how he dreads what violation is sure to come, his master’s hands leave new oil-slicks glistening over the purpled flesh of his arse but how he  _adores_  that touch; his length aches between his legs and how he moans as he rocks himself backwards against his master’s waist, wordlessly he pleads for what he knows will surely come. Yet a surprised grunt of frustration slams out of his throat as an instant later his master presses forward yet he remains inviolate; his master does not breach him, does not push up inside of him, he does not even touch him there. Instead his master glides himself through the tight juncture of his legs, he fills that tantalising gap of space between the curve of his arse and his reddened, aching thighs and desperately he whines as he realises just what his master intends.

For swiftly there his master builds his rhythm; each thrust of his hips rocks him across the sheets as without need for bodily care his master fucks him, fucks  _against_  him, and how that humiliation needles through him. For with each slam of his hips his master slides across sore, angry skin; his master’s length nudges over the base of his bollocks, it grinds along the underside of his own aching flesh and sends such jagged snatches of pleasure through him, but too little,  _too little_ , that pleasure teases and swirls but it will not build, and helplessly he whines as that frustration cramps through him.

And each minute seems an eon as his master ruts against him; his hands clench into shaking, bloodless fists as his master’s length slides over raw, abused flesh; pain and desperate, hurting overstimulation shake a series of moans from his chest as still his master grinds against his drooling, throbbing length, as without heed for his pleasure his master uses him, and miserably he whimpers as that degradation sinks in.

And finally,  _finally_  his master’s breaths rattle into pants; every muscle in him seems to ache as his master slams hard against him, as suddenly then he feels the warm, sticky spurt of seed across the bruised flesh of his thighs. He shudders as it drips down his legs, it daubs him in nothing but his shame and so greatly then he wishes that his master might release him, that they would be done with this sordid display of his submission and that he could just run away and hide, run away and wash himself clean, but how swiftly such tentative hopes are crushed.

The barbs prick hard into his tongue as his master slaps him upon the arse, as bound still by wire, cord, and spellcraft his master pushes him to his side atop the sheets and leaves him there to lie.

_“Has your place become clear yet, Mairon?”_ his master purrs, imperiously he draws himself up and below him he simply whines. Blood froths upon his lips as he cries out in his anguish, in his disgrace, as he simply begs for this to end, but as even that slight movement of his tongue sends fresh pain cutting into him then miserably he quietens.

_“Defiant to the last,”_  his master murmurs; vicious light spills rich and golden through his eyes, and so callously then he says,  _“perhaps you might benefit from reflection upon behaviours to be remedied.”_

His eyes flare wide with horror as with neither backwards glance or further comment his master stalks from him then; hurt lurches through both heart and flesh as his master tugs open the grand door to his bedchamber and like some glutted shadow slips through it, before bolting it fast in his wake. And left alone in his misery how desperately he whines; the frantic contortions against his bonds only leave fresh abrasions scored into him, drying fluid itches and stings upon his tortured thighs, and he simply shivers out his agony as the weight of his disgrace engulfs him.

Just a thing to be defiled, to be abused; this is what he is, this is all that he ever will be; how those hateful thoughts slip into his mind and there they latch. Blood and seed drool from him to soak into the sheets below, pain throbs through his core and it melds only with the frustrated arousal left simmering in his stomach, his length aches between his legs as still, _still_  he yearns for his master’s touch upon him.

But cold and hurting his master has left him, lonely and sore, just a shivering little lord cradled in the aftermath of his own failings, and there to dwell until absolution might come.


	15. Primordial

_My half of a fic exchange with the wonderful jardindesetoiles! Who asked for some 'first time' Angbang, so here's a take on how the first coupling between Mairon and Melkor might have gone down, all of those eons ago._

 

* * *

 

The sight of his master seated so elegantly upon the edge of the bed sends his heart skittering, so radiant and fickle and fey are his master’s golden eyes set glittering there amid the shadows. So handsome is his master’s smile, so deliciously tempting is the lilt of his voice as he bids him enter, and the sharp click of the door closing behind him sets things to turn in his stomach that should not. 

Yearning brushes through his innards and desperately he bids it be still, a cool façade he clasps across himself to mask what might fester below, yet though his master remains distant, the intimacy of the bedchamber sees him unravelled. 

For how long has he tried to hide from such feelings? He does not even want to think of it. They were not seemly, he had told himself, they were not his place to feel; he was his master’s lieutenant, his prodigy, his friend, and nothing more to him, nothing more. So ever he would squash down the desire that knotted in his throat as his master would teach him of Arda’s mysteries, he would bat aside the sick, stupid adoration in his heart as his master would bid him good morrow, or invite him to dine, or do another million little torturous things that left ardour cramping in his innards and a false smile upon his face.

It was a secret; it was _his_ secret, though ever it gnawed at him, and never more keenly than now as his master drawls, _“Come in, Mairon. Do stop dawdling by the door.”_  

Hurriedly he steps forward, framed within the gleaming annulus of a great lantern set ablaze overhead he comes before his master who does not deign to rise, and deeply he bows before standing neutrally once more. 

His master does not swiftly reveal his purpose, something capricious seems to crackle in the air and ponderously his master appraises him, and as the silence between them stretches on all too quickly he begins to slip. For shyly, _hungrily_ his gaze flickers over his master’s face, over the strong cleft of his pectoral muscles glimpsed through the low collar of his shirt, over the tight fabric that clings so delectably between his thighs, and –

 _“You seem distracted of late, Mairon,”_ his master says suddenly, and almost imperceptibly he rocks back on his heels as the sharpness of that speech cuts through him. _“Ever your eyes glide to a wayward tune.”_

And oh what shame blisters through him at that grievous observation; a blush tinges his cheeks and desperately he grapples down the longing that flows in his stomach. It is wrong, he thinks, it is not his place to speak what is truly in his heart, and he scarcely dares consider what harm might come if ever such feelings were truly brought into the light. It is so much better to pretend, he thinks; better to feign ignorance, insolence, stupidity.

It would hurt so much less in the end.  

And though that thought seems to wither some delicate thing inside of him, elegantly he sinks down to one knee just halt of his master, his head bows and he is so absurdly thankful that the fall of his hair conceals the sorrow in his eyes as softly he says, “If my actions have caused offense then please forgive me, my lord. It was not my intent.”

 _“And what was your intent, I wonder?”_ his master murmurs; something dark and honeyed rolls in his voice and upon his knee how he trembles to hear it. He near flinches with the terror of it, the _delight_ of it as his master reaches for him, as his master raises his face and meets his wavering gaze. _“You have such wanton eyes, Mairon. You must think me blind.”_  

Such lust quivers through him at his master’s tender words that it nearly tears him apart to restrain it; his master’s thighs spread before him and how he aches to simply lean forwards, to touch his master all coy and lewd and to make him happy, to peel back fabric and with tongue and body to worship him, to make him feel just a fraction of what he feels for him, to adore him, to love him. 

_“Is this what you desire, little one?”_

Such ecstasy brims in his blood as deeply his master looks to him; nervousness and desire crush through his veins and the sound of that private, teasing pet-name rolling over his master’s lips only knots his stomach tighter, craving burns in his heart and huskily he breathes, “Yes, my lord.” 

And with that sordid admittance dragged all gasping and snarled out of his throat he cannot bear to look his master in the eyes, he cannot bear to glimpse what rejection, what scorn might lie there, and though his gaze drops to the glossy marble beneath him still he breathes, “Yes.”

 _“Then strip for me,”_ his master commands; apprehension and sizzling elation scream in his veins as his master draws him up; so smooth is his master’s gaze upon him as he peels off his doublet, as he fumbles with the laces of his boots and slowly wrests them from him. And with the removal of superfluous layers how he blushes as his master’s gaze darkens, with fluid serenity those golden eyes glimmer as he unclasps the buckle of his belt, as he tugs free the hem of his shirt and quickly slides it up his stomach. 

 _“Slowly, Mairon,”_ his master purrs. _“Let me admire you.”_

A jagged thrill rips through his veins, more languidly then he draws his shirt off; he revels in the play of his abdominal muscles sensually revealed in the lantern-light, he delights in the tiny smile that curves his master’s lips as he shakes loose his hair over his shoulders left broad and strong by years at the forge, and for those fleeting moments he simply bathes in his master’s attention. 

But too soon that bliss slips from him; his fingers shiver upon the lacings of his breeches and he cannot quite find the courage to undo them, to expose himself so crudely. For desire manifests itself in crass flesh, suddenly his master’s gaze is all too intimate, all too invasive, and shyly then he turns away. 

One deep, steadying breath he inhales as he turns his back to his master, as slowly he coaxes his lacings open. Softly then, seductively he pulls his breeches down over his hips, his fingers shake as he slides them over his arse, until at last he steps free of them and naked then he stands. And as the seconds trickle by how terrifying then is the sense of vulnerability; his master remains silent and motionless upon the bed and as time seems to curdle then nothing but horror spears through his innards. Maybe his master would not find him comely, maybe this was all just a trick, some horrible, humiliating jest played out at his expense, and as the terror of that possibility forms in his mind how miserably he looks to the blank marble before him. 

Yet an instant later footsteps sound behind him, and hard he grits his teeth to stop from crying out as suddenly his master touches him; one greyed hand slides over his shoulders whilst the other wraps about his throat, his master’s bulk presses into his naked back and how delicately he swallows against his master’s palm. He near whimpers with the thrill of it, the danger of it as his master’s thumb strokes over his jaw, arousal floods through his stomach as his master’s breath flushes over the side of his neck, yet though he shifts his hips back into his master’s warmth still he cinches his arms in to cover himself, to hide the traitorous stiffening of flesh between his legs. 

 _“Turn,”_ his master breathes; blind compulsion scratches through him and as his master’s hands release him then nervously he pivots, he presses himself into his master’s chest as timidly still he hides himself, his hands knit across his groin to conceal that final, sordid truth.

 _“Show me yourself,”_ his master murmurs, a wobbly breath hitches through his lungs and shakily he complies. Slowly he moves his hands aside, and shame crushes through him as his arousal is left plain to see, his length stiffened and aching and so awfully exposed.

Yet the dread that grips him then is scattered as his master takes his hand, grey fingers twine through his own and gently squeeze, and tenderly then his master asks, _“Do you want me, Mairon?”_

The moan that comes to his lips then could have brought Utumno toppling down around him as his master pulls him closer, as burned fingers ghost up his length and waves of heat throb through him as those wondrous sensations only build and, “Yes, my lord,” he whispers, “yes, yes, yes,” and he barely has time to draw breath anew before his master’s lips press against his own. 

Deeply, richly his master kisses him; their lips meet, and part, and meet again in urgent little couplings; a keening gasp he breathes down his master’s throat as his master palms him, as he coaxes him yet harder. Strong fingers dance over engorged veins, they swirl through the wetness that glistens upon his slit and as his hips buck into that sensation how hungrily his master kisses him, elegantly, viscerally, and as he feels his master begin to steer him about he follows where he is led.

In the close press of their bodies his master’s shirt is shed, backwards down upon the bed his master tips him; a biting, lapping constellation of kisses trails down his chest, down his stomach as his master moves atop him, and how he moans with the pleasure of it as his master takes him into hand once more.

 _“Spread your legs for me,”_ his master purrs, and desperately, helplessly he complies; his head tips back into the dishevelled mess of his hair as his thighs part. He simply whines out his ardour as his master positions himself between them and bends, as he licks one hot, teasing line from his base to his tip. 

“Oh… oh f-fuck,” he breathes; each pass of his master’s fingers, each delicate flick of his master’s tongue sends waves of pleasure coursing through him, desperately he rocks his hips into each new, exquisite motion, and filthy smile rips across his face as those sensations only stoke. “Please, oh, p-please, my lord, pl – _oh!_ ” 

And how he shivers as his master’s touch slides lower; one hand still teases its way up his throbbing, drooling length whilst the other explores him far more intimately; scratching lines trail inwards across his thighs and how he squeaks they pattern over his skin, a shrill little noise that deepens to a groan as his master’s fingers brush lightly over his entrance. 

Wordlessly he moans as he feels his master withdraw, an instant later something cold drizzles down upon him and his master’s fingers breach him ever so slightly, and amid the pleasure that swarms through him it is only with that unnatural sensation that he finds the breath to protest. For even as his eyes glaze over with lust, nervousness trembles in his heart; he never meant for it to go so far, it is dirty, it is wrong, it is too terrifyingly submissive and as his master works his fingers knuckle deep inside of him desperately then he writhes. His legs struggle to close from where they hook about his master’s waist, yet as his frantic contortions lend him no solace plaintively then he bleats, “Wait! Wait, my lord, I – “ 

 _“Shh, Mairon,”_ his master croons, and a wordless groan of ardour erupts over his lips as suddenly his master crooks his fingers, as they nudge up against something exquisite inside of him and set such helpless, paralysing lust shuddering through him. And though reluctance still tears at his heart how wonderfully tender is his master in those moments; breathy little pants glisten upon his lips as his master withdraws from him only to push his fingers back in splayed a little wider, so sensual is his master’s touch still wrapped about his length and between those warring sensations he is caught, and how deliciously they tear him apart.  

For how he groans as his master spreads him wider; his back arches in one slow convulsion as his master pushes his slickened length up inside of him; pain and pleasure collide and burn and throb and his eyes close as that pressure only builds inside of him, as his master rolls his hips and gradually builds his rhythm.

“Oh, fuck, _f-fuck_ ,” he breathes; how achingly full he feels as his master thrusts to the hilt within him, his hands claw despairing little furrows across the sheets as his master’s pace only quickens, suffocating and sublime and invasive and he can only groan as to him his master croons. A litany of perversities flows over his master’s lips, flatteries and seductions punctuate teasing little kisses and how warm they make him feel, flesh parts and bodies meld and each slide of his master up inside of him sends pleasure throbbing through his stomach. 

Yet all too soon that pressure becomes too much; each push of flesh into yielding flesh becomes sore, his master’s breath turns to ugly pants atop him and pain splinters through ardour. A mewling gasp of discomfort punches up over his lips as too roughly his master presses into him, it is lost within the more measured rut of his master’s rhythm but with another solid slam of his master’s hips into him pain skewers through his innards, and breathily he whimpers, “Stop…” 

But roughly his master fucks him; hands lock with bruising force about his arms and pin him down into the bed, they quell whatever protesting struggles he mounts as pleasure crumbles only into pain. 

“Stop,” he gasps, “s-stop, please, you… you’re h-hurting me, st- _ohhh!”_

And how he writhes as pain crashes back into pleasure, fluid pre-come drools from his length and his thighs ache as his master spreads them and he doesn’t know what to do; this is wrong, this is wrong, even through the arousal that swirls in him, through the feeble jerks of pinioned limbs, this is a violation. But maybe it is not so bad, it is not so terrible, and it feels like a betrayal even as he thinks it but it is so much better just to endure, to enjoy it, to revere it, because this is what he wanted, this is what he wants. 

So hard he tries to convince himself of that as his master fucks him, as the breath lurches from his lungs and his hands tighten into gaunt fists about the bedclothes. 

This is what he wants, this is just how his master is, all violent and sensual and corrupt, it is so much easier to swallow down the feeling of being used and just to pretend, to pretend, but an all too real moan flickers out of his throat as once more his master strokes up his length. Hard his master reams him, a growl lingers upon his breath and suddenly those sensations become far too much; he feels the hot, sticky spurt of seed up inside of him and into his master’s touch he rolls his hips, into that thoughtless abyss of passion he tips himself willingly. And how flagrantly he grinds himself upon his master’s length as his climax rips through him, the aching fullness of his master’s length sheathed up inside of him only sends him spiralling higher in his ecstasy, and helplessly he scrabbles against the bedclothes as his master coaxes the last throes of orgasm from him.   

Tenderly then his master holds him as that excruciating pleasure slips away, gently his master withdraws from him and even as the first shaky, gulping breath breaks through him his master envelops him to his chest, and there holds him as he begins to shiver. Seed daubs his stomach, his master’s fluids leak over his thighs but somehow he cannot bring himself to wipe them away; shock numbs the strength from his limbs as the enormity of what was done, of what he has just allowed sinks in, and for a long while it renders him helpless. 

For though pleasurable in its aftermath he aches from how roughly his master had used him, reddened marks darken to bruises upon his arms where his master’s fingers had gripped, yet it is not the pain that frightens him but the intent behind it. For his master had not stopped even as he had begged for a reprieve, his master had forced him, hurt him, and he hadn’t wanted it to go that far but his master had pushed him, had made him, and that more than anything sets little rills of disquiet to tremble through his stomach. It was a crime, it was an abuse, his master should not have done that, yet even through his protests still pleasure had ripped from him. Violation had birthed release in all of its rapture, he had come at his master’s hand and how he had _adored_ it. 

Rights and wrongs, violations and mercies, they tangle together into one confusing, inextricable knot as he lies there in his master’s arms; his heartbeat comes all loud and wrong in his ears as gently his master strokes down the planes of his chest, as so caringly he touches him, and into that gentle embrace he simply lets himself collapse. And perhaps in the end it is indecision that becomes his surrender, the protests that worm still through his heart do not die but quieten; it would be too much of an effort to bring them forth, it would be too hateful, and as the lantern burns low and the shadows lengthen he simply curls himself up into his master’s chest, he lies there in the arms of he whom he loves most in this world and he tries not to feel.


	16. Crimes of the Body

_Angbang. tw: heavily implied rape / non-con_

 

* * *

 

The nightly hours had stretched on silver and lonely, dully he had stared into the clotted shadows at the corner of his bedchamber and tried to drown himself in their oblivion. Yet at last behind him he hears his master stir, the slight crackle of the candles is broken by a golden voice purring softly into his ear.

 _“Illuin wanes, little one,”_ his master breathes, and with those words how miserably he shuts his eyes. Upon the very edge of the bed he lies, curled in upon himself under the thick swaddling of his quilts, yet even their warmth could not ease the chill from his limbs.  _“We must arise.”_

Pressure throbs across his jaw as his cheek presses lightly against the pillow, the awful bloat of traumatised flesh mottles across his face; his master strokes one lazy finger across the lines of his turned shoulders and he forces down the gulp of dismay that bubbles up his throat. It is too soon, surely, the coming of the morn is too sudden in its cruelty, it should have just left him alone to decay, for as his master’s hand wanders to the curve of his hip, pain blossoms across his skin.

A muffled groan slips from his throat as beneath his master’s hand he shifts; soreness cramps through his stomach and the slight curl of his legs sends hurt bruising through his pelvis, and in those perilous moments he scarcely dares to think upon what might yet be wreaked upon him.

 _“You cried out in your sleep,”_  his master murmurs; one hand traces slender little spirals over his shoulder blade and how he shivers beneath those fingers.  _“If indeed you slept at all. Tell me, then, of what did you dream that might trouble you so?”_

The silence that hangs seems to curdle upon the air; despair bubbles up in his throat but he dares not give it voice, he dares not give life to what it truly is that he feels, and it is only with the too-sharp slice of his master’s fingernail across his skin that at last he mumbles, “A city…”

His tongue feels thick in his mouth, the words stumble through his teeth still stained in red, and pain throbs in dull, aching knots through his stomach as he murmurs, “A city was burning… Smoke bled across the skies…”

He can almost feel his master’s smile, that rich, golden smirk set glittering behind him and how he hates it, how he  _adores_  it, how the sick intermingling of emotions pulses to the rhythm of his hurt and only makes it worse.

 _“Did you condemn it to the flames?”_ his master purrs.

“I know not, my lord,” he whispers. “It simply was.”

Behind him he feels his master arise and saunter away across the bedchamber, and deeply then he inhales, he musters the will within himself to follow. He should just forget about it; one haunted night, against the weight of millennia what was it truly, yet as he tenderly pushes himself up into a sitting position, pain stabs through his stomach, and a gasp shakes from his lips. Swiftly, instinctively he clutches to himself, the bedsheets twist about his waist as they furrow in his grasp, and desperately he holds himself then, as if beneath his fingers he might smooth away the hurt that ripples through him.

He could stifle it, he could deaden it, he could sink back into numbness and simply not feel, but he cannot escape the memories seared into his flesh.

For how miserably then he glances to the bruises that ring about his wrists; ugly, purpled things bitten into his arms; his hair falls in a ragged mess across his shoulders and veils his face from view as he closes his eyes limned in swollen, reddened flesh. He had thrashed, he remembers, he had screamed, his master had come with wine upon his breath and terror in his eyes, his master had pushed him down and he had struggled, he had pleaded until his master had struck him so grievously that he dared not cry out anymore.

 _You should be so grateful to have me, little one,_  his master had snarled, and raggedly, helplessly he had nodded as his master forced him down onto the bed. He had simply curled his fists into the sheets and tried to swallow down his sobs as he prayed for it to end.

Desperately now he tries to still the shake of his knuckles as pain throbs in his stomach, and nervously he glances to his master standing at the foot of his bed, shrugging back into robes shed in haste the night before. Hard then he steels himself: he should not show his master how much he is hurting, he should just be a good little lieutenant and follow where he is led, and finally he brushes the covers back from his waist.

Bruises swirl like florid, rotting roses kissed upon his hips; horror clenches in his heart as tentatively he shifts his legs, as pain jolts through him and with the part of his thighs he glimpses the blood that smears across his innermost flesh, the little streaks of red that cling amongst viscous, half-dried white.

Some tiny noise of dismay must have escaped him, for to him suddenly his master turns, and desperately he cinches the covers close about his waist to hide himself.

 _“Come, Mairon,”_ his master says, yet as he tentatively shifts himself towards his master’s invitation he cannot help but gasp as discomfort clenches through his innards. Pressure slams beneath his skin, abused flesh whines and squalls in its agony and with a wince then he falls short; he clutches tightly to the folds of the covers and for a moment sits still.

Heavy, bruised flesh twitches across his cheek as he tries to force himself to move; his master’s eyes linger upon the too-tight grip of his fingers, all whitened knuckles and stark bones, and violently he starts as his master suddenly steps towards him.

 _“You hide yourself from me,”_  his master say strangely; his voice both vague and intense, and it takes every shred of his willpower not to flinch backwards as his master sits upon the edge of the bed and slowly reaches for his hands.  _“Why?”_

“Nothing, my lord,” he says faintly; the words seem to crawl over his lips as he feels the sheets tugged through his grip and how fervently he loathes them. In all of their weakness, in all of their pain they drench him, like a frightened child he can only wait for the truth to be peeled back and exposed, and how he hates himself for it.

“It’s nothing…” he echoes, but his voice dies in his throat as his master strips the covers from him, as the mess between his thighs is laid so horribly bare in the candle-light.

Unreadable are his master’s eyes, fey and impassive his master looks down upon him, and something inside of him seems to wither under that gaze; the gutting humiliation of it gnaws at his stomach with uncaring teeth and how viciously it rips him apart.

“I’m sorry, my lord,” he whispers; shame hauls the words from his lips like struggling fish hooked upon a line, and desperately he closes his legs. His hands knit over his groin and his thighs as if somehow that would erase what had been done, he could undo the atrocity done upon him, and softly he bleats, “I’m sorry…”

 _“Clean yourself up, Mairon,”_ his master commands, and how the tone in his voice sends his heart lurching. For cold is his master’s face as he arises once more, his features grim and haughty, and without further glance his master turns and strides towards the door.  _“Do not stain my halls with your disgraces.”_

Alone then his master leaves him, cold and hurting, and shame twists like a vice through his innards. Tears prickle behind his eyes but savagely he bids them stay, and even as he sits there he will not let them fall. It is unbecoming, it is  _weak_ , he tells himself; perhaps his master did not truly mean to hurt him so, perhaps beneath that imperious façade some shred of remorse for his suffering yet lingers.

It has to be true, he tells himself, it must be true, yet there is but one word that festers in his heart.

_Liar._


	17. A Slice of Ginger

_Angbang. tw: dubcon, and figging, as by anonymous (but secretly I know who you are ;) request!_

* * *

 

 

All of Angband had swelled with merriment as its lords welcomed a grand company of merchants into the fortress’ dark embrace. Far from the East they had come; pale-skinned Edain swaddled in rich robes of magenta and cobalt cloth to shield them from the desert sun, and at his master’s invitation they had come to ply their wares.

Upon swaying camel-back and ox-drawn carts sat boxes and sacks of spices beyond count, the like of which were not seen in Angband’s shadowed farmlands, and more besides, gemstones and artefacts gleamed in chests of blackened wood, and how both he and his master had delighted as within Angband’s great hall they were at last revealed.

Jovial he had thought the mood of the evening; the Edain were quick to laughter and jest, and among their company he had talked with ease, though perhaps that ease in the end proved his undoing. For a waifish youth with kohl-rimmed eyes seemed to delight more than most in his company: the smile hovering about his lips was just a little too inviting, the soft touch of the youth’s hand upon his arm was a little too flirtatious, a little too brazen. Smoothly and swiftly he had rebuffed such advances, yet he had glimpsed the jealous light in his master’s eyes lingering upon him, and though a gallant smile still played about his master’s lips in the company of their guests, dismay turned in his stomach to think upon what might come after.

Soon enough the night had drawn to its close, and well-sated the Edain merchants retired to their chambers, yet nervous anticipation had churned in his stomach as his master had forbade him his own departure, and commanded instead that he accompany him to his chambers.

Silently now he stands within his master’s writing room, and though apprehension claws through his heart as with predatory laziness his master lights the lanterns dotted about the walls, he will not allow himself to be daunted. He has committed no crimes, he tells himself, no improprieties. Tall and proud he stands and gazes over his master’s desk, across the sheaves of parchments and assorted trinkets that cluster over its lacquered surface, and desperately he tries not to jump as from behind him his master suddenly says, _“A luxurious night we may have had, little one, if not for the failings in your deportment.”_

Low and rich his master’s voice pours through the room as he stalks about to face him fully, yet haughtily still he stands, he looks his master in the eye and evenly replies, “I know not what you mean, my lord. I have committed no wrongs that I can tell.”

 _“That you can tell…”_  Something fey glitters in his master’s eyes, gold and sharp and dangerous, and with perilous tenderness his master reaches out to stroke one greyed thumb across his cheekbone.  _“If you mean to flaunt yourself amongst my guests like a wanton little whore then perhaps we should treat you as such.”_

At that truly he bridles, that accusation was not fair, it was  _wrong_ , he had done no such thing, but the look in his master’s eyes tempers the sharp rebuttals that he so longs to give. Instead he simply swallows down his pride, and as smoothly as he can says, “My lord, you are mistaken, and your judgement in this matter is unfair. I did not –“

 _“You think me unfair, Mairon?”_  Too roughly his master relinquishes him, too quickly his master steps away, and horror turns in his heart as darkly his master purrs,  _“Then perhaps I should give you something true to bemoan.”_

Upon the elegant chair poised before the desk his master sits, and though he longs to cry out against the injustice of his master’s words, the repercussions of such disobedience play heavily on his mind, and they bind him to his stillness. Yet though he tries to stand neutrally he cannot hide the frown of puzzlement that furrows his brow as from a pocket within his robes his master draws a strange object.

Alike to a thick, twisted tree-root he thinks it; light brown in colour and strangely organic looking, and worriedly he watches as his master plucks up a small knife from amid the clutter of the desk and carefully slices across the thing’s surface.

 _“A fascinating thing,”_  his master murmurs; unease prickles in his veins at the gluttonous note in his master’s tone, and unconsciously he fiddles with the hem of his tunic as his master’s eyes rest heavily upon him.  _“Whilst some choose only to indulge their base promiscuity, others might take chance for the enrichment of the mind. The Edain are foreign in their ways, yes, but not uncouth, and their leader was most elucidatory upon methods of commanding obedience…”_

The knife dances across the root’s surface as if his master were whittling wood; brown skin peels away in thick skeins to reveal a juice-slickened yellowish interior, and something clenches in his stomach as the sharp, spicy scent of ginger prickles in the back of his throat. It was a true rarity within Angband’s halls, imported only from the farthest East, and how he stares in growing horror as within his master’s hands the thing begins to take shape. A thick, bulbous length of root his master peels bare, near its base it tapers to a narrower neck before flaring out sharply once more into a knobbed end, and fitfully he stirs as the terror of imagination gnaws at him.

“My lord…” he begins softly, pleadingly; his master could not intend what he thinks may come, he could not, such a thing was  _vile_ , yet the venomous look in his master’s eyes shocks him back to a wary silence, and as the seconds wear on his nervousness only grows.

 _“Strip,”_  his master commands suddenly; dismay tips through his stomach as he eyes the glistening thing in his master’s hands and those veiled intentions are so starkly laid bare, and though he slowly grasps the hem of his tunic he cannot quite bring himself to draw it upwards.

“My lord,” he bleats, “my lord,  _please_ …”

Black puissance crackles through the air; the spasm of pain that his master sends jolting over his skin tears a yelp from his lips, but swiftly it passes, and silkily then his master purrs,  _“Would you disappoint me again, Mairon?”_

The knife scrapes audibly over the raw flesh of the ginger root, and though an awful flush of humiliation mottles over his cheeks, the terror of what might happen should he truly disobey now grips him the tighter, and taking one deep, shaky breath slowly he undresses himself.

Naked at last he stands before his master, and how horrifically vulnerable he feels as his master eyes him; the slight admonishing click of his master’s tongue halts his hands where he seeks to draw them across his groin to cover himself, and rigidly then he holds them by his sides as his master gazes at him.

Upon the desk his master then sets the ginger root and he does not dare to look at it, he does not dare comprehend the obscene shape that it now resembles; with such sick eagerness his eyes follow his master’s motions as he sweeps clear an expanse of the desk’s surface, and from a drawer withdraws a length of cord. Numbly he allows his master to bind his wrists together before his stomach; a loose length of cord dangles from the knots that hold him fast, and to this his master takes hold, and as though it was a leash gently tugs him forward. Reluctantly he follows, he keeps his eyes firmly affixed to bared wood of the desk as his master leads him towards it, but what shame turns in his stomach then as his master purrs,  _“Bend.”_

Over his master’s desk he slowly lowers himself; the balls of his feet just rest upon the floor as his chest and stomach press hard into the wood. His master draws his arms up outstretched before his head, and his cheeks flush crimson as his master ties off the length of cord binding his hands to a far leg of the desk.

How deliciously then his master toys with him left bound there and whimpering; sharp nails slice down the sides of his ribs, they swirl in teasing little circles about the indentures of muscle at the base of his spine, and though the edge of the desk jams painfully into his thighs how desperately he raises his hips as his master’s attentions stir flesh to growing, shameful arousal.

Though for neither his comfort not arousal his master seems to care, and sharply he flinches as something cold drips down upon him. Viscous oil drizzles down the cleft of his arse, and softly he moans as his master’s fingers trail through it, as his master purrs,  _“Spread your legs, little one.”_

His master’s fingers knead over his arse, over his thighs, and shakily he spreads them, and how he groans then as yet more oil drips down upon him and his master’s fingers glide teasingly over his entrance.

 _“You will be quiet for me,”_  his master murmurs, and the veiled threat in his tone brokers no arguments. Rigidly then he sets his jaw, he swallows down the moan that bubbles up in his throat as into him his master twists one finger, and soon after another; he chokes back the strangled cry of delight as his master’s fingers nudge over that exquisite spot inside of him that sets his hips slowly grinding against the desk.

Yet it is not for his pleasure that his master spreads him, and fear hums in his stomach as finally his master withdraws his fingers from him, and as he hears his master take up the carved ginger root into his hand, desperately he tries to force himself to relax. It would hurt much less that way, he thinks, it might not be such a violation, but he can scarcely restrain the gasp of pain that jerks to his lips as his master slowly works the oil-slicked root into him.

For how exquisitely it  _burns;_ it stings and itches and tingles with every miniscule scrape over all too sensitive tissues, and he can but shudder and pant in his bonds as such inescapable sensations blister through him. Soft mewls of distress he bleats into the desk as deeper into him his master pushes the root, as slowly his master fucks it in and out of him at its widest point of girth, and he can but writhe and whimper as those sensations seem to rub him raw.

 _“Come, Mairon,”_  his master croons; with such sadistic glee he presses the root a fraction deeper into him,  _“do not whine. Think back to darling Maitimo, and rejoice, for all Angband knows you like a slice of ginger between your legs from time to time.”_

Nothing but a tortured groan ebbs out of his throat as his master presses the root fully into him, and he cannot restrain the whimper that follows as he feels his body seal itself about the root’s narrowed neck and immovably hold it inside of him. For how it burns against his insides; that distorted feeling of fullness is so awfully humiliating and every tingle of flesh sets his body involuntarily clamping down upon it. Yet with each twitch of his internal muscles pain flares anew through him, and heat, such blinding heat, and caught between those two torments for a while his master simply watches him suffer.

Languidly his master seats himself at the desk, and shame stabs through him as from him his master’s attention slips; over the scrolls and parchment scattered across the desk his master pores and to his torment he is for a while left alone. The horrible thing inside of him pulses out its discomfort in relentless waves of heat, still he feels so achingly full, yet even as his body slowly relaxes to accommodate its pressure still he is brought no respite.

For as the taut muscles of his back slowly relax, as the tightness of his hips slowly softens suddenly his master slaps him across the arse; a vicious handprint he leaves rising in reddened, swollen skin across him, and a helpless whimper lurches over his lips as with that impact he clenches involuntarily about the root inside of him, and its heat sears through his innards. Desperately then he pants, he writhes and squirms as if that might somehow lessen his discomfort, yet as his frantic little motions prove to no avail he simply moans his misery into the wood below him as its pressure throbs through him.

 _“Quietly now, little one,”_  his master purrs; greyed fingers wander the sore flesh of his arse and draw a faint hiss from his lips, but otherwise he holds his silence, and for a while then his master simply leaves him there to lie. Yet it is with such brutal inevitability that should he for an instant begin to relax then his master would torment him anew. A savage pinch to his thighs sets him moaning as heat pounds through his stomach, the slicing line of a quill nib drawn hard across his arse sets him shaking in his misery, for with each new impact upon him instinctively he clenches down upon the root left plugged inside of him, and its terrible heat throbs through him afresh.

For how long his master keeps him there he cannot know; his thighs and shoulders tremble with the strain of holding such a forced, awkward position, his innards seem abused beyond endurance from the unrelenting pressure of that vile root inside of him, and desperate elation spirals through his heart as at last his master arises from the desk.

His master’s fingers wander slowly over the reddened skin of his arse, and softly then he purrs,  _“Have you learned your lesson yet, Mairon?”_

Across the wide, knobbed base of the ginger root left so humiliatingly exposed his master’s fingers stir, and even with that small stimulation how terribly he groans, and desperately he presses his face into the desk to muffle the whimpers of pain that bubble up in his throat. His master had not given him permission to speak, the thought pounds inside of his head and desperately he tries to obey it as above him his master smiles, but as suddenly his master grasps the base of the plug and pulls it midway from him, he is powerless to stop the squeak of agony that jumps to his lips.

Nerves rubbed raw screech out their protest as the stinging ginger scrapes over them; tired, over-stimulated flesh is stretched afresh, and grievously he whines as with such sadistic delight his master slowly fucks him with the plug once more. The force of each motion sends pain throbbing up through him, in that moment it is all far too much, and miserably he chokes, “Please, my lord…”

The words came far too swiftly for him to stop them, and dismay floods through his heart as above him he can almost feel his master smile, he can feel the derision there for all of his failings, for his weaknesses, for his hatreds; there is nothing there but cruelty as his master forces the plug back into him and slaps him hard upon the arse.

Pain tears through his stomach and how awfully he gags with it, tormenting nails scrape over his skin and fluidly his master purrs,  _“Not good enough, little one.”_

An unearthly pause rocks through the air, and terror shimmers in his heart as his master sneers,  _“Yet let it not be said that mistakes might not be redressed. Nay, perhaps you simply require more time to reflect upon the consequences of your actions.”_

And with that final horror left hanging upon the air panic bolts through his veins as from him his master stalks away, as he vanishes through the doorway that leads to his bedchamber and bestows upon him his attentions no longer.

Bound and helpless his master leaves him, splayed there and stuffed with that vile ginger root, and miserably he slumps against the desk as its heat thuds implacably through his innards. The lanterns burn low as his master leaves him there to suffer; the utter degradation of it scores into his heart and there seeps its poison, and those evil hours were as a torment almost beyond endurance even for one so corrupted as he.


	18. A Touch of Metal

_Angbang, and by birthday request for the lovely crackinthecup on tumblr, tw: sounding_

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His master’s smile is so beautiful he finds that he cannot quite refuse him; deeply his master’s lips press to his own and how he revels in the thrill of it. Across the lacquered marble of his bedchamber his master waltzes him, his clothes are shed across the floor in the hot crush of bodies and his master’s shirt along with it, and excitement hums in his veins as his master pulls him close.

His master’s fingers wander over his skin, they tweak and turn the metal barbells that pierce through his nipples and his breath comes a little heavier amid their kisses, greyed fingers coax such tender flesh to engorgement and richly he smiles as he feels his body wholly respond, as desire swirls in his stomach and stirs other flesh to attention.

 _“I have something special for you, Mairon,”_  his master purrs; a shiver runs down his spine at the sound of his name rolled across his master’s tongue, yet obediently still he stands as his master sweeps behind him and binds his hands at the small of his back with a soft length of silk.  

Almost shyly then he smiles as his master glides back to his front, nervous anticipation fizzes in his veins, but his eyes flare wide with alarm as from a pocket his master withdraws a thin metal gag. More alike to a horse’s bit than to his master’s usual preferences of enforcing silence he thinks it; a slender, slightly curved bar forged of shining steel hanging between two large rings, one set through the bar at each end of the gag and each trailing a thick leather strap, and he recoils slightly as his master lifts it to his face.

 _“Come, little one,”_  his master purrs,  _“do not be afraid,”_  and though apprehension swirls in his stomach, he parts his lips for his master. It is not such a hateful thing pressed across his tongue, he thinks as his master buckles it tightly at the back of his head, his lips can nearly close about the bar between them, yet they part again in surprise as suddenly his master takes his hand and draws him forward.

Backwards upon a plush couch set against the wall his master sinks, slowly his master pulls him down atop him until he comfortably straddles his waist, yet even with that simple motion the first prickles of embarrassment brush over his cheeks as he feels saliva begin to glisten uncontrollably upon his parted lips.

But his master is not finished with him yet, and curiously he watches as to the piercings through his nipples his master attaches two delicate lengths of string apiece, one to each side of the metal that skewers through his flesh, and how he moans as he then senses his master’s purpose. For swiftly his master ties off those strings to the rings that border the gag between his lips; the strings pull taut and lightly they tug upon his nipples as he holds his head level, yet what should happen if he should move, if he should arch his head backwards, sends a thrill of arousal racing through his veins.

Upon the couch then his master sits comfortably, and for how many minutes then he toys with him, truly he cannot say. For how tantalising is the constellation of kisses that his master trails down his torso, how wondrous is the glide of his fingers over the taut muscles that define his abdomen, how obscenely decadent is his master’s grin as he teases up his already stiff length and begins to gently palm him. Breathy little moans ebb over the gag as relentlessly his master plays with him, each tiny movement of his head tugs so deliciously upon his nipples, and so enraptured is he by such sweet sensations that he scarcely notices his master reach once more into his pocket and withdraw something new.

“ _Do you know what this is?”_ his master murmurs, and quickly his eyes flit to the thing that his master holds across his palm. A smooth, thin metal rod it appears to be, bluntly curved at both ends and around eight inches in length, but its purpose he cannot immediately descry, and his gaze flickers worriedly to his master’s face as he carefully shakes his head. Even that small motion pulls upon his nipples; something devious lurks in his master’s eyes and for a moment fright glows in his heart, but kindly then his master says, “ _Do not fret, little one, I do not mean to hurt you. Relax, relax now…”_

Within his master’s voice he cannot detect a lie, and the strange thing is quickly set aside. Greyed hands wander over his stomach, they slide over the strong lines of muscle that pattern over his pelvis, they stroke up his length until he begins to rock his hips into each lingering touch. For pleasure roils in his stomach with his master’s every motion: a muffled groan hums in his chest as his master gently cups his bollocks and rolls them in his palm; thick, turgid veins pattern his length and wetness spills from his slit as gently his master teases it. The desperate roll of his hips sends pleasure humming through his torso, the strings jerk upon his nipples and only stoke the fires of his passion, and caught amid such a thrill of sensations he scarcely notices his master taking up the metal rod once more and slicking it in oil.

Once more his master takes him into hand and he rocks his hips into that wondrous pressure, yet amid that warm sensation something cold pierces; his master swirls the slickened metal about the engorged head of his length and how he flinches in surprise. Gently his master teases the blunt edge of the rod about the swollen flesh that ridges him, over the tiny, fluid-drenched indentation of his slit, and despite the pleasure that sparks through him with that sensation, so too does apprehension.

For his master’s smile is just a little too eager; tender, yes, but hungry; an idea suddenly forms in his mind but it cannot be what his master intends, it  _cannot_ , yet as the rod’s touches upon him do not cease, slowly he shifts his hips away. A questioning, nervous whine emanates from behind the gag, and as his master’s hand closes about his waist and prevents his movement for one startling moment he realises how truly helpless he is. But his master’s fingers do not dig into him, they do not hurt him, and tenderness drips in his voice as he speaks.

 _“Hush, little one,”_  his master croons; he reaches up to stroke a stray strand of hair from his face and tuck it neatly behind his ear. “ _Hush now, calm yourself. You must trust me now, you must trust me, and I will show you something exquisite.”_

His master’s voice is lulling, hypnotic; flatteries and placations pour over his lips and slowly he begins to heed them, taut muscles soften and a little lower he sinks across his master’s waist, and how wondrously his master smiles at him then.

 _“Very good,”_ his master whispers, a soft kiss is pressed to his parted lips, and slowly then his master begins to tease him once more. The metal rod dances about the reddened, flared head of his length and desperately he forces himself to relax, it nudges about his slit and when at last he seems settled gently his master pushes it but a few centimetres into him, and how that sensation engulfs him.

It is wrong, it is bizarre; to be penetrated like that feels so viscerally alien, and a squeak of discomfort nudges over his lips as his master pushes the rod a little too hard into him. Gently though his master withdraws it, more oil is drizzled over its tip, and over the pink opening of his slit, and desperately he tries to gather himself as once more his master slides the rod into him. Deeper and deeper it glides into him and how he writhes with the pressure of it; aching flesh quivers and jerks in its torment, and hard he yanks upon his nipples as instinctively he tosses his head back, he splays his thighs wider, and a wounded keen of pain and such perverse pleasure sounds from deep within his chest.

To the very base of his stiffened length his master slides the rod and how he pants with the sensation of it; the pressure pulsing through such tender flesh is almost too intense to endure, that obscene sense of fullness sets his senses reeling, and raggedly he moans as his master carefully slides the rod back out of him.

He twitches and writhes in his bonds as slowly his master begins to fuck him with it; again and again the rod glides through delicate flesh and with its every motion such pleasurable agony pulses through his body. Amid aching contortions he splays himself, he presses himself forward into his master’s hands and wordlessly he pleads for his master’s caress upon him, for his master’s fingers to slide up his length and all of the ecstasy that they might bring. Yet his master will not indulge him in that, not yet, and with what tender cruelty is he rewarded as his master slides the rod to his very base once more, and impaled within his stiffened flesh for a moment leaves it.  

“ _Look at me,”_ his master commands, and slowly he raises his head; the strings pull taut and tug so lasciviously upon his nipples, and softly his master’s hands brush over his flushed, sweaty cheeks.

 _“You are so beautiful, little one…”_ his master murmurs, and he whines with longing as his master’s fingers slip from his face.

To his own erect length his master turns attention, a generous measure of oil he slicks into his hand and swiftly palms himself to full stiffness. Coyly then his master grins at him; hands grip over his arse and press him closer, and as the stuffed tip of his length grazes against his master’s shaft how he gasps with that sensation.

Nothing but dark, hurting pleasure boils up through him as his master slowly frots against him; the scrape of swollen veins and turgid flesh against his own straining length is all too excruciating in its torment, and as his master reaches up to gently manipulate the rod that impales him how desperately he whines.

A filthy moan echoes out of his throat as with his right hand then his master presses them together; the tip of his head glides up his master’s underside with every rutting stir of his hips and lust floods through his stomach with the sheer wonder of it; the tug upon his nipples and the fullness of the rod within him is simply too much to bear, and under the weight of such unrelenting stimulation slowly he comes apart.

Into those feelings he bucks his hips, as the minutes wear on like torturous centuries he grinds his aching length against his master’s and such raw delight blisters through him as truly it begins to hurt. And how his breaths transmute to ragged little gasps about the gag as his master’s breaths deepen in turn, tighter together his master presses them and each roll of his hips only sends him spiralling higher towards a peak that does not come, that cannot come, it cannot come for the rod that still plugs him, and shaking with need he moans as his master’s fingers stir over its end.

 _Please_ , he wants to scream; he wants to beg for this to end, to continue, he wants to collapse into the abyss of all the sensations that scream inside of him and just let them devour him. Each slide of his master’s flesh against his own sends flashes of light sparkling in his eyes, and beseechingly he groans behind the gag, he thrusts himself against his master’s length and delights in the low gasp that bursts then from his master’s throat.

Again his master stirs the rod within him; something wrenches in his stomach and near delirious with need he whimpers, he trembles and shivers and rolls his hips, and how violent is his delight as finally his master breathes, _“Will you come for me, little one?”_

Yes, he moans, yes, yes, yes, oh  _f-fuck…_ And though the gag distorts his words how ecstatic is his cry as his master slides the rod free of him; every muscle in him clenches as one and desperately he comes. Seething waves of pleasure crash up through him and hard he grinds against his master’s length, he shuts his eyes as the rapture of release envelops him, and the sound of his master’s groan as he too finds his delight only pushes him higher.

Together their seed mingles in his master’s palm; such excruciating bliss rocks through him with every tiny press and slide of his master’s length against his own that it snatches the breath from his lungs and leaves him helpless. It is only as the throes of climax finally slip from him that he dares to open his eyes again, panting and spent he slumps forward into his master’s chest, and he cares no more for the pain that throbs in his nipples as the aftershocks of such intense pleasure tremor through him and numb from him all other feelings. Yet even as the immensity of that sensation begins to overwhelm him, as shock prickles through his skin and he mewls with its glow, so tenderly his master is there.

 _“Easy,”_  his master croons; he wipes free the mess from his palm and gently caresses his face, before with a word of power severing both the knots of string at his nipples and the silk that binds his hands. Shakily he dips his head as his master reaches for the buckle of the gag, and as it is drawn from his lips and cast aside he buries his face into his master’s chest and simply hugs into him, and he is so fawningly grateful as his master moves to hold him in return.

 _“Hush,”_  his master breathes to him; he had not even realised that he was whimpering as greyed fingers stroke soothingly over his cheeks.  _“Hush now, you’re all right. You’re all right, little one, you did so well…”_

Slowly his breathing begins to steady; the warmth of his master’s embrace somehow helps to anchor him where he fears that he might drift, and as the tension slowly slips from his body, to him his master smiles,  _“You enjoyed yourself?”_

Words still seem a step beyond him so shakily he nods, his master’s fingers stroke so reassuringly over his back and into his master’s chest he settles himself, and a soft sigh of contentment ebbs over his lips.

 _“Then that is good,”_  his master murmurs; his fingers rub slow, soothing circles over his back, and cradled into his master’s bulk he shuts his eyes as his master continues,  _“For though grimness suits you, your happiness is a loveliness beyond compare, and this night I would have you smile.”_


	19. Nine Score Centuries

_no topic warnings for this one - just general smut ;)_

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The hour grows late; coals burn low and menacing in the ruddy heat of his forge, and although the chatter of the orcs snatches at him as they meander past the door of his workroom, he does not yet heed them in their excitement. There is much yet to do upon this night before he might succumb to revelry and idle pleasures, and though a part of him longs to follow the orcs to leave such labours for the new day, to abandon them for the feast and merriments that await above, this he must finish first. 

Tucking a stray strand of hair back into his ponytail, his brow creases into a frown as he heaves a longsword from the forge’s belly and lays it sizzling upon his anvil. Swiftly he bends over the glowering blade, with a neat hammer he deftly knocks upon the flat of the sword’s tang, in miniscule gradations shaping it, guiding it, weaving pliant metal anew. A slender thing it is, yet strong, and fell, forged of metals spewed deep from the bowels of the mountains and now honed to perfection, a deathly blade to bring ruin to Angband’s enemies.

For how long then he works he does not know; minutes, hours, they blur into a meaningless continuum of hammer-strikes and appraising glances, of the rush of the bellows and the flurried swirl of cinders, of the steady beat of his heart and the grinding thoughts of the mountains that cradle him, infinite and implacable, and in that timeless place for a while he simply lets his creation guide him. 

It is only with the slight scrape of the door swinging open across the flagstones that at last he looks up; the fluid inertia of his labour shatters and how his heart leaps to find his master standing within the door’s yawning aperture. 

Clad in ceremonial finery his master stands, tall and proud and maleficent; the Silmarils blaze their hallowed light from his brow and how the gold in his master’s eyes is set to glittering contemplation as for a moment his master regards him. And in that moment of stillness how handsome his master is, he thinks; upon this sacred night how fey, how regal, and something clenches in his stomach as then his master saunters forwards, shutting the door behind him with a soft thud.

 _“You are still working, Mairon?”_ his master purrs. Auric eyes alight upon the sword unveiled across the anvil, and at the slight, appreciative smile that plucks at his master’s lips his heart swells with pride. _“Come,”_ his master drawls, _“the revelries await us, and you are sorely missed from my high table.”_  

Graciously he smiles in turn, a slight huff of amused breath sounds in his throat, but more soberly then he turns to the sword before him and glances over it. “I shall join you presently, my lord,” he says. “It is near completion, but for the scalloping of the tang… it would be best not to delay…” 

An inscrutable look passes over his master’s face, something roguish glimmers in his eyes, something soft and dangerous and _irresistible_ ; golden puissance seems to hum throughout his forge as his master skirts the wide workbench to stand at his side. Yet for the directness of the action still his master’s intentions seem vague, for with mild interest then his master simply watches him, watches as he turns and once more plunges the sword into the coals of the forge to heat.

_“How long has it been, little one?”_

The words were scarcely audible, more a knowing susurrus through the air, and as he stands turned from his master then, softly he closes his eyes. How long had it been; the fateful question seems to stick in his throat. Centuries, millennia, for years almost beyond count he has followed his master, he has been faithful, he has kindled war and razed cities from the earth, he has forged weapons and artifices and devices of such wonder that Fëanáro himself should drool with envy.

Atrocities, accomplishments, the years tumble away into a dizzying eternity, something hollow seems to gnaw in his stomach, but swiftly then it is smoothed away as he turns to his master, and gently says, “For nine score centuries this fortress has stood, my lord. Long may it endure.”

At that his master smiles, a soft, gluttonous thing, and as he seeks to turn aside to the sword once more beginning to glow with heat, ashen fingers reach for him. Gallantly his master takes his hand, he raises it up and places but one princely kiss upon his knuckles, and what aching emotion engulfs him then as his master murmurs, _“And so it shall, with such a cunning lieutenant at its helm.”_  

A crooked, almost bashful grin quirks over his lips; he is sure that the very tips of his ears are showing pink, but as he turns his head aside his master steps forward to hold him. One strong hand grasps him by the hip, his master’s fingers run so deliciously over his jaw, and nothing but bliss flows through him as fully into his arms his master pulls him then, and plants a magnificent kiss upon his lips. 

Deeply, richly his master kisses him, and eagerly he responds; the incessant glow of the forge bathes them in crimson light as he parts his lips, and the swirl of his master’s tongue against his own sends pleasure sparking through his veins. Tightly then he holds to his master, his fingers clench into his master’s shoulders with the ferocity of his passion as at last his master’s lips turn from his own; they trail a biting, bruising constellation of kisses over his jaw, down his throat, and a groan of such exquisite torment he keens into the ruddy air as his master kisses him once more, scoring a dark bruise deep into the flesh of his throat.

Such is the delight that storms through him that he can scarcely restrain the rock of his hips against his master’s bulk; the desires of the flesh become all too pressing, all too urgent, and hard he stifles a gasp as his master’s fingers slide down over his stomach, over his pelvis, as they send such waves of pleasure shrieking out over his skin. 

Yet swiftly then his master withdraws, a deep kiss is pressed once more to his lips as his master’s hands run over his arse, over his thighs, and some tiny noise of surprise must have escaped him as suddenly his master lifts him, and seats him gently upon the edge of his forge table. His booted feet dangle inches clear of the flagstones below, a shaky breath rocks over his lips as master’s fingers press over his thighs, yet eagerly still he waits, and graciously he is rewarded.   

 _“Spread your legs, little one,”_ his master murmurs; the words send a shiver of anticipation through his stomach and swiftly he does as he is bidden, his thighs stick a little with sweat but his master pushes them open, and as he glides forward to stand between the open juncture of his knees an elegant kiss is pressed to his lips. And how he moans into that kiss as his master’s fingers wander over his thighs once more, they leave little furrows scored into the fabric of his breeches, and oh what a strangled gasp of delight clots in his throat as his master’s grip slides inwards, as over the swell of cloth at his groin his master brushes, lightly at first and then more insistently. 

His knuckles show white beneath his skin as he grips into his master then, as softly his master palms him, strokes him, teases him; through that thin barrier of cloth his master coaxes him to such painful stiffness and each mewl of breath and tiny, beseeching rock of his hips only adds fuel to his torment. For how desire cramps in his stomach as at last his master reaches for the lacings upon his breeches, he near pants with the hurt of it as even that gentle pluck is arousing beyond measure, until at last fabric falls away and how scandalously he is left revealed. Swollen, needy veins ridge him, fluid drools from his tip to bead upon his shaft left curving up towards his belly, and desperately he squirms as with agonizing languor his master leans forward to kiss him once more. 

The billowy fabric of his master’s shirt grazes across his engorged head and sends a gasp tumbling from his lips, he near rolls his hips into even that fleeting contact, yet his master’s placating hand upon his waist bids him be still. 

 _“You have always been so loyal,”_ his master murmurs, hot breath flushes over the tender skin of his throat, and honey rolls in his master’s voice. _“Happy New Year, little one.”_  

And how wondrous is his delight as with that his master stoops, down upon one knee before him his master sinks, and such a groan of ecstasy shimmers from his throat as his master laves his tongue up his aching length that the forge’s light seems to thicken in its hue. Slowly his master teases him; every touch of his tongue is drawn out into a spiral of such excruciating pleasure as he ghosts over the throbbing veins that ridge him, as he nudges about the engorged flesh of his head, and oh what a choking cry of delight he swallows as his master flicks his tongue over his slit, as it glides through the wetness that pools there already and bids it run. 

A delicate little kiss his master places upon the very tip of his head and it tingles upon his skin, and how deliciously then his master parts his lips, he takes him down deep, and a gasp of delight punches up out of his lungs as that smooth motion sets pleasure boiling in his stomach. 

“Oh,” he breathes, “oh, oh _f-fuck_ …” His head tips back in rapture as his master sets a firm rhythm, and how achingly he adores it; his fingers curl gently through his master’s hair as he sighs out his pleasure, black tresses spill through his hands as he cradles his master to him. For how fervently he craves this indulgent affection that his master bestows upon him, love and lust and such wordless, brutal passion come smashing up from his stomach and suddenly his master’s touch upon him becomes all too much. Every pass of his master’s lips is just too sensitive, every swirl of his tongue too raw in its lust, and as his master’s tongue flicks hard up his underside and with a filthy, breathy moan he comes.      

It is all that he can do to relinquish his grip upon his master’s hair as pleasure splinters through his veins; his master turns his face away and he spills his seed across his master’s palm, yet still his master is there, his master is holding him; the heat of the forge laps across him and his master’s smile was so beautiful in the light, and as the bliss of his ecstasy slowly slips from him he only wishes that it could stay, soft and ephemeral and lulling, forever.

Yet it cannot, and it would not, though scarcely poorer in comparison is his master’s imperious rise before him, and the soft kiss that is pressed to his lips.

 _“Come_ ,” his master purrs, and so golden and luxurious is his voice that it seems to dissolve something inside of him. _“The celebrations await, and I doubt the soldiery will give even us leave to delay for much longer. Set your labours aside for the new day, for tonight is a time of pleasure.”_  

A gentle smile moves him, and gladly then he nods, and nothing but secret, unspoken joy flows through his heart as together he and his master ascend to Angband’s great hall, and the revelries that herald the new year sweep him into their festive current.     

 


	20. Rockmilk

_Some Angbang for you: no major topic warnings save that of_ ****_consensual drug use / intoxication :)_   
  


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The black spires of the Thangorodrim rear up like iron talons cleaving apart the sky, and contentedly he looks out upon them. Upon a high balcony set amid Angband’s jagged minarets he reclines upon a low, plush couch, and his master sits with him, and as the sun dims in the western sky and the wine pours between them, pleasantly he basks in the evening light. Of the affairs of the world he and his master speak, and jest, and muse; sweet plum-wines brought out of the deserts of farthest Rhûn loosen tongues from the strictures of court, and merrily he enjoys his master’s company. 

The dust-reddened sun casts arterial shadows between his fingers as he turns his emptied goblet within the light, and idly he waits as his master for a moment withdraws to the fortress’ interior. A blood-warm breeze stirs his hair worn unbound across his shoulders to dance, and he brushes its blond fall back from his face as soon enough his master returns; a lazy smile across his broad, handsome features, and a rarity in his hands.

For clasped within his master’s greyed fingers is an ornate vial of some strange liquid; through the tint of aged glass he glimpses a viscous, pale fluid, and curiously he peers at it.

“What is that, my lord?” he asks; his master turns the vial and a thrill of excitement pulses through him at the indulgence in his smile. 

 _“You have not seen it before?”_ his master murmurs, seating himself once more at his side upon the couch. _“Rockmilk, it is called in the forgotten West. A liquor condensed from the hallowed stones of Arda’s birth, distilled from the pyroclastic heats of the deepest abyss. It is a potent thing, for those who dare it.”_

A gluttonous smile curls his master’s lips, and carefully the vial is unstopped, and into an emptied goblet his master pours a small measure of the liquor. Sweet it smells to him, yet metallic, and truly he beholds it as it settles; a thick, cream-like liquor with a nacreous sheen, like some ammonoid iridescence decanted and made fluid.

_“Care you for a taste?”_

The danger in his master’s voice sets something simmering in his innards, yet with roguish boldness he meets his master’s gaze, and grinning says, “With your permission, my lord.”

A goblet in turn his master pours for him, before stopping the vial and setting it aside, and curiously he watches as the opalescent liquor stirs and settles at the base of the glass. 

 _“To Angband,”_ his master intones in toast, and lifting his goblet he echoes the sentiment, before settling comfortably back into the couch, and gazing out across the balcony. The sun bleeds into a cleft of the shadowed mountains, and he watches it sink, and tentatively he takes a sip of the liquor. Almost greasy upon his lips it seems, and cold, for an instant it is almost numbing; a cloying, earthy taste scrapes across his tongue, yet as he swallows then how swiftly he feels its potency kindle into life.

Stealthily it pours down his throat, warmth prickles through his flesh, and behind it puissance crackles; it irradiates him, innervates him, heat throbs in his stomach and a swell of such decadent pleasure hums in his veins. And his fingers tremble with the thrill of it as he raises the goblet to his lips again; a rush of such breathy, terrible heat flushes through him as he gulps down another mouthful.

Such fell puissance unfurls in him then that he can but breathe as it envelops him, his every sense prickles with static, potential, _seismic_ energy; euphoric, glittering bliss scours through his veins, it pounds in his blood, and sets a strange arousal simmering in his stomach. Heavily, hungrily he breathes as desire rolls through him, it revels in heart and marrow alike, and as he takes another sip of that thaumaturgic liquor, the sudden presence at his side sends the world reeling.  

For as such blazing heat scorches through him anew how the shock of his master’s eyes destroy him; cruel and honeyed and wondrous they gaze at him, his master draws nearer to his side and lust burns in his eyes. And oh what savage ardour rips up from his stomach as his master’s hand wanders over his thigh, such a terrible, vicious thing, it howls and squirms and roils within him until it might tear him apart, and how he wants it to, he _needs_ it to, to control him, debase him, _devour_ him. 

The glimmer in his master’s eyes sets him ablaze, greyed fingers rake up his thigh and he shivers in their wake; dizzying, drunken desire glows in his veins and with it he moves. With one sinuous twist he rises, he lunges up and about to straddle his master’s waist, unhallowed passions shake in his fingertips as he twists his hands through his master’s hair, and deeply then he kisses him. 

Richly, greedily he kisses him, and eagerly his master accepts him, and in those panting, yearning moments how he adores his master’s lips upon his own; the sweet scent of rockmilk prickles in his throat, it sends him spiraling even higher, and a little gasp of delight he breathes as his master’s hands close about him.    

Hard his master grips him, greyed fingers slide over his spine, his ribs, his hips, and desperately he pushes himself into those touches; every little contact seems to sparkle across his skin. And how deliciously he smiles as at last his master pushes him back, roughly his shirt is tugged from him, and the moan that ebbs from his throat as his master leans forward, as his master’s tongue flicks out over his nipple, could have cast down Angband’s walls around him with their scandal. 

His fingers twine through his master’s hair as so teasingly his master licks over his nipples, as he rolls them between his teeth; desire floods through his stomach as his master scratches red, searing lines down his back, and carelessly, eagerly, desperately he throws himself into those sensations. But how he longs for his master’s hands to wander downwards, inwards; sharp fingernails swirl over the indentations of muscle at his hips, and oh what a pleading, panting, unlordly keen erupts from his throat as at last his master brushes over the aching swell of fabric at his groin. 

“Please, my lord,” he breathes, such agonizing waves of desire pulse through him as all too slowly, all too tauntingly his master coaxes him harder, a lecherous smile upon his lips and caprice glimmering in his eyes. Yet wantonly, flagrantly he grinds himself into his master’s fingers, dark puissance scuds through his veins, it twists decorum to basest carnality, and he lets it drown him. A groan of such exquisite torment hums in his chest as his master tips him forward, as a constellation of biting, bruising little kisses are laved into his collarbone; florid and bloody and pounding they stand upon his skin, and he whimpers as the pain of them brushes through him. 

Yet his master’s fingers ghosted over the engorged flesh beneath his breeches drag that whimper into a gasp, those sensations crash together inside of him and become inseparable, he can but grip into his master’s hair and moan out his desire as slowly, slowly, so _excruciatingly_ _slowly_ his master strokes him harder.  

Augmented by that terrible liquor every touch burns upon his skin, such visceral arousal grips him that it is all too much to bear, desperately he rolls his hips into his master’s hand, and with such cruel languor his master responds. A predatory smile lingers in those golden eyes as his master pushes him away, aside, he settles back amid the cushions of the couch and such seething, vicious delight shrieks up through him as his master tugs his breeches from him that it is all that he can do not to break beneath it. 

And how he hisses in delight, in pain, in _need_ as between his legs his master kneels, as over him his master bends, as his master kisses over his stomach, his hips, his thighs; swollen, reddened bruises his master kisses into his skin and how he mewls with the rapture of them. Desperately he arches his back as his master licks up his aching, drooling length; his fingers clench into the cushions of the couch as pleasure bolts through him, as for a moment more his master teases him, before withdrawing slightly; flushed and sweaty he looks up at his master with such pleading in his eyes.

 _“Do you want me, little one?”_ his master purrs, fingers stroke over the engorged crown of his length and set his hips bucking, every sensation only explodes within him, and “yes,” he breathes, “yes, yes, yes,” his master spreads his legs and everything seems to fall away.

Fingers press at his lips and shakily he parts them, a flush of humiliation touches his cheeks as he licks at them, cradles them, worships them; his master’s smile above him is unholy as slick and dripping he withdraws his fingers and trails them down his body, between his thighs. 

A filthy moan tumbles from his lips as gently his master his master breaches him, with a twist his master sinks knuckle-deep inside of him and how wonderful that pressure feels; fluid pre-come drips from his aching length as slowly his master works him open, only to withdraw once more. Through the spill of his own wetness his master’s fingers swiftly glide, they brush so maddeningly against him, and how he groans with pleasure as his master thrusts into him once more, more roughly now, more purposefully. 

Hungrily he pants as his master slips free of his robes, greed gnaws at his heart as his master pushes his thighs open wider, as something slick drizzles down upon him, and it is all that he can do to gulp in one strangled, euphoric breath as his master gently pushes into him. For how sweetly it burns; waves of exultant pressure throb through his stomach, ephemeral puissance glitters in his blood, and helplessly he moans as his master’s bulk pins him down into the cushions, as slowly his master sets his rhythm, as pleasure spills through him and there ignites. 

His master’s lips press against his own in savage, biting kisses; slowly, violently his master fucks him, and how he _adores_ it, so achingly full his master makes him feel with every languid thrust, and he can but groan out his delight. And all too soon he feels that familiar heat begin to clench within his abdomen, his master nudges up against something exquisite inside of him and as that fresh ecstasy rolls through him desperately he bucks his hips up into it, blindly he bites down upon his master’s lip. 

The metallic tang of blood flickers over his tongue, and hard his master grips him then, fingers lock with bruising force about his arms yet hurt smashes only into pleasure within him, and it shakes the breath from his lips. 

“Fuck,” he croons, “oh _f-fuck_ …” 

And slowly his master’s breaths deepen to snarls of lust above him, his master’s every thrust up inside of him crushes the air from his lungs and how exquisite it feels; his length scrapes up his master’s stomach and those tantalizing little touches only push him higher, higher, _higher_ ; arousal cramps in his stomach, his master sheathes himself to the hilt inside of him, and suddenly, desperately he comes. 

His fingers claw reddened furrows into his master’s shoulders as pleasure boils up inside of him, the devastating fullness of his master inside of him is simply too much to bear, and as a rush of heat prickles through him he groans, and he spills his seed for his master. And through each excruciating clench of muscle he feels his master come with him, he feels the warm spill of seed up inside of him, he gasps and moans as still his master presses into him, until every ounce of pleasures seems wrung from his body. 

Flushed and spent he can but groan as carefully his master withdraws from him, the evening breeze ruffles sweaty strands of hair across his face, and how beautiful he thinks his master there sitting still between his spread thighs. For a few moments then he lies still, until gently his master reaches to him; the fading glimmers of rockmilk burn like embers beneath his skin, and graciously he smiles as they warm him, as his master pulls him close. In the dimming light for a while then they sit, and when cogency once more avails him then for a while more they talk, and laugh; his master draws a thick wolf-pelt about them both together they sit, and before them the dying sun slips behind the mountains, into shadow.  


End file.
